THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


PRESENTED  BY 


Dorothy  Branson  Ingram 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00024460815 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold,  it  may 
be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DAJI  RETURNED 

^JJ|  RETURNED 

OCT  23 

im 

dam* 

— UEb  Is 

am  j 

Dig 

itized 

by  the  Internet  Archive 

i 

n2014 

https://archive.org/details/poemsOOIong_0 


POEMS 


— BY — 


HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  LIBRARY 

tME  UNIVERSITY  OF  NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CH  APEL  HILL 


HUEST  AND  COMPANY, 

PuBLIRFSH*. 


CONTENTS. 


TAGS, 


Prelude,   9 

Voices  of  the  Night, 

Hymn  to  the  Night,  a   17 

A  Psalm  of  Life,   19 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers,   21 

The  Light  of  the  Stars,   23 

Footsteps  of  Angels,   25 

Flowers,    27 

The  Beleaguered  City,   31 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year,   34 

Earlier  Poems. 

An  April  Day,  *   39 

Autumn,   41 

Woods  in  Winter,   44 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem,  ...  46 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills,   49 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry,   51 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink,   55 

Translations. 

Coplas  de  Manrique   61 

The  Good  Shepherd,   84 

To-morroWf  ,  .    .    86 


3 


4  ©0ttt*ttt|Gu 


PAGE. 

The  Native  Land,   88 

The  Image  of  God,   89 

The  Brook,   90 

The  Celestial  Pilot,   92 

The  Terrestrial  Paradise,   95 

Be  trice,   98 

Spring,  '  101 

The  Oild  Asleep,  103 

The  Gi  ve,  105 

King  Christian,  107 

The  Happi^t  Land,  109 

The  Wave,  .  •   in 

The  Dead,   1 12 

The  Bird  and  the^hip,   113 

Whither?  -   115 

Beware  !  •„   117 

Song  of  the  Bell,  119 

The  Castle  by  the  Sba,  121 

The  Black  Knight,  123 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land,  126 

L'Envoi,  12S 

Ballads  and  other  Poems. 

Preface,  131 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  ♦  145 

The  Wreck  of  th-2  Hesperus,  s.. ;  154 

The  Luck  of  Edenhall,  **•  159 

The  Elected  Knight,    162 

The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supcer,  165 

M I SCELLA  N  r.OUS. 

^he  Village  Blacksmith,  19/ 


5 


PAGB- 


Endymion,   198 

The  Two  Locks  of  Hair,  200 

It  is  not  always  May,  202 

The  Rainy  Day,  204 

God's- Acre,  205 

To  the  River  Charles,  207 

Blind  Bartimeus,  209 

The  Goblet  of  Life,  211 

Maidenhood,  214 

Excelsior,  217 

Poems  on  Slavery. 

To  William  E.  Channing,  223 

The  Slave's  Dream,   225 

The  Good  Part,  that  shall  not  be  taken  away,  ..  228 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp,  230 

The  Slave  singing  at  Midnight,  232 

The  Witness,   234 

The  Quadroon  Girl,   236 

The  Warning,  MtttttM«t«Mttt«»f**»*  *  239 


PRELUDE. 


Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 

And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 
To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 
Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between 
Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 

Alternate  come  and  go  ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground  ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound;— 


A  slumberous  sound, — a  sound  that  briagg 

The  feelings  of  a  dream, — 
As  of  innumerable  wings, 
As  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die^ 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie, 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea ; 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page. 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  Eli 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themea* 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleam^ 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 


Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a  bride, 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings* 

And  bishops'  caps  have  golden  rings, 

Musing  upon  many  things, 
I  sought  the  woodlands  wide. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild; 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy  I 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, v 
"  Come,  be  a  child  once  more  I " 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  frofc 

And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow  • 

0,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar; 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  I 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  theWb 
Kneeling  at  her  rv^ning  prayer  I 

Like  uiiL*  ia  pray^z  I  stood. 


i2  <§m%ti\W$  gam*. 


Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew,  . 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through,. 
Spread  a  vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again  { 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

At  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  !    Stay,  0  stay. 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  i 
And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 
"It  cannot  be  !    They  pass  away 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay  ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a  child  ! 

•'The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lie% 

Watered  by  living  springs  ; 
The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes 
And  gates  unto  that  Paradise, 
Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise, 

Its  clouds  are  angels  wings. 


"  Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Nor  forest  sounding  like  the  sea, 

Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 

Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

"  There  is  a  forest  where  the  din 

Of  iron  branches  sounds  ! 
A  mighty  river  roars  between, 
And  whosoever  looks  therein 
Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, 
Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 

"Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour  ; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast; 
Pallid  lips  say,  e  It  is  past  ! 

We  can  return  no  more  ! 9 

"  Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write! 

Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream  ! 
All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 
That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright,  — 
Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme," 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 


I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls  I 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet  s  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose ; 
The   fountain    of  perpetual   peace  flows 
there, — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

3  17 


O  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 
What  man  has  borne  before  1 

Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 
And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace !  Peace !  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this 
prayer ! 

Descend  with  broad- winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed-for,  the 
most  fair, 
The  best-beloved  Night! 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID 
TO  THE  PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
"  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream!" 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !    Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

19 


In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footsteps  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footsteps,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 


There  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Deaths 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

u Shall  I  have  nought  that  is  fair?"  saith 
he ; 

"  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet 
to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eye% 
He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

#i  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  £*J9m 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
•€  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  thejr,  - 

Where  He  was  once  a  child. 

Ml 


22 


' '  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear/' 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above, 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reaper  came  that  day; 
'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 


The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon  } 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
O  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above 

A  hero's  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise/* 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 


*4  fCangfeUattfis  garni*. 


0  star  of  strength  !    I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand. 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  un conquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art. 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

O  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  ia< 
To  sutler  and  be  strong 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS.- 


When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight  ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 
By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

25 


They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being-  Beauteous* 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me^ 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


FLOWERS. 


Stake  full  well,  in  language   quaint  and 
olden, 

One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 
When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and 
golden, 

Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 
As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 

Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 
Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,   and  manifold  as  won* 
drous, 

God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above  ; 
But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  US 
Stands  the  revelation  of  His  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours; 

27 


Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth, — these  golden 
flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay ; 

Brilliant    hopes,    all    woven    in  gorgeou3 
tissues, 

Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light ; 
Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night  I 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than 
seeming  ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers* 
Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 
Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born  ; 


Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing; 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn  s  wearing, 
In  the  center  of  his  blazen  shield ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to  drink  } 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone. 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 

On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In   ancestral   homes,   whose  crumbling 
towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 

Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers  ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-Ilka 
wings, 


3©  ?&(m$tllmf$  ^vtm$. 


Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reason^ 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds'  expand ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY. 


I  have  read,  in  some  old  marvelous  talcfc 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pal« 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 
The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 

And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there^ 
No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 

The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 
As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

3* 


But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvelous  heart  of  man 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 
In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
.  Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 
Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound. ' 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  ther^ 
In  the  army  of  the  grave  : 


No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 
But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afaf  - 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  stai; 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 

a 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING 

YEAR. 


Yes,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 
And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared  f 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely, — sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow  ; 
"  Caw  !  caw  !  "  the  rooks  are  calling. 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll  ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing,  "  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray, — pray  !  " 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 
34 


And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ;— 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain,  ^ 
All  in  vain  ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heathen 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king, — a  king  ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 
His  joy  !  his  last !    O,  the  old  man  gray 

Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, — 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath,—* 

''Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  I 
Do  not  laugh  at  me  ! " 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies  ; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread  t 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  or  stain  I 


j6  fttfttgfellflw'i*  %*mt. 


Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crietU 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"Vex  not  his  ghost  i" 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roai;4" 
Gathering  and  sounding  on, 

The  storm- wind  from  Labrador 
The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm- wind  ! 

Howl !  howl  I  and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest^ 
0  Soul !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cas^ 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  1 
Kyrie,  eleyson  ! 
Christe,  eleyson  I 


<  AN  APRIL  DAY.' 


When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
Tis  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where 
springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 
When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright 
forms, 

Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 
The  coming-on  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws   its  sustenance,  and 
thrives ;  [ cold, 

Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly-warbled  song 
Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored 
wings 

n 


40  ?£m%ftlW#  %tm& 

Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  movea 

along1 
The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope 

throws 

Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 
And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And,  when  the  eve  is  born, 
In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o'er-reaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her 

horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  sta& 

Inverted  in  the  tide, 
Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows 
throw, 

And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 
And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April ! — many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  • 
Nor  shall   they  fail,  till,    to   its  autumn 
brought. 

Life's  golden  truit  is  shed. 


1 


AUTUMN. 

With  what  a  glory  comes  and  goes  the 
year ! 

The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  har- 
bingers 

Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life's  newness,  and  earths  garniture  spread 
out ; 

And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and 
with 

A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  w^rm  light  the  pillared 
clouds. 

41 


42 


Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate 
wooer, 

Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crim* 
soned, 

And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, 
Where  autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits 
down 

By  the  wayside  a-weary.    Through  the  trees 
The   golden    robin    moves.     The  purple 
finch, 

That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird,   comes   with  its  plaintive 
whistle, 

And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird 
sings, 

And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy 
flail. 

O  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes 
forth 

Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 


On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well 
spent ! 

For  him  the   wind,    ay,   and  the  yellow 
leaves 

Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent 
teachings. 

He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn,  that 
Death 

He  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a  teac. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 


When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 
And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the 
gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods 
The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 

And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 


Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear     «J ' 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song;  i 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year, — 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OP 
BETHLEHEM 


AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKl's  BANNER. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day- 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 
Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head ; 
And  the  censer  burning  swung, 
Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 
The  blood-red  banner,  that  with  prayer 
Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the 
while, 

Sung  low  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisles 

'Take  thy  banner  !    May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave ;  j 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  Sabbath  of  our  vale, 
46 


When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaka 

"Take  thy  banner  !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it ! — till  our  homes  are  free  1 
Guard  it ! — God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

"Take  thy  banner  !    But,  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  !— By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him  ! — he  our  love  hath  shared ! 
Spare  him  ! — as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  I 

u  Take  thy  banner ! — and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 


48  ^flttgfeltoW^ 


Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud  I 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS. 


I  stood  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide 
arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 
And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 
Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 
The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ; — bathed 
in  light, 

They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded 
height, 

And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered 

lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 
Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade ; 

4  49 


so  !&m$tt\W$  §?0*m& 


Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  dayj 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, — 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  wood* 

land  fills, 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin 

smoke, 

Through  thick-leaved  branches,   from  the 
dingle  broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from 
sleep, 

Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  ! — No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears.  \ 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 


There  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwell's  where'er  the  gentle  south  wind 
blows  ; 

Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the 

glade, 

The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft 
air, 

The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  out- 
spread. 

With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When   the   fast-ushering  star   of  morning 
comes 

O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled 
Eve, 

In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western 

gate, 

Departs  with  silent  pace  !  That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 

5* 


52  %[,ttn$ttllmf#  §j0«tt& 


From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  wide  cascade ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slip  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with 

endless  laughter. 
And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the  stem,  strong  wind.  And 

here,  amid 
The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from 

earth, 

As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift     Hence  gifted 
bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in 
all 

The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle 
winds, — 

The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong 
sun 

Aslant  the  wooded  slop,  at  evening,  o-oes,— 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  sky 
looks  in, 


Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny 

vale. 

The  distamt  lake,  fountains, — and  mighty 
trees, 

In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of 
youth, 

My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That    dwell  in   nature, — of  the  heavenly 
forms 

We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush 

the  clouds 
When  the  sun  sets.    Within  her  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light 
And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung, 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.    Her  hair 
Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 
When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on 

her  cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 
With  ever-shifting  beauty.    Then  her  breath, 
It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 


54  l&m$tt\W$  %om#. 


As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it 
comes 

Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy- 
To  have  it  round  us, — and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 
Heard  in  the  still  night  with  its  passionate 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK.\ 


On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The*  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell  ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown. 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 
Rose  the  blue  hills.    One  cloud  of  white 
Aroun4  a  fair  uplifted  cone, 
In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 
An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 
By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

55 


5°  %*uifltlUwfg  §>o*m& 


They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warriors  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin  , 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid  ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain  ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread. 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 
He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 


They  buried  the  dark  chief ;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart !    One  piercing  neigh 
Arose, — and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

O  let  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 
Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake  | 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently  ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away, 
Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs  ; 
The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past, — the  past,— 
More  highly  prize. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keepsi 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 
Till  life  is  done  ; 

And,  did  we  judg^  of  time  aright, 
The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Would  be  as  one. 


6: 


lonpfrllotr4.!*  ¥om$. 


Let  d  o  o  r.  e  fon dly  dream  aga i n . 

That  Hope  and  all  her  sr.aclo-.vy  train*-. 

Will  not  decay ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a  tale  that's  told 

C  ur  lives  are  rivers,  gliding- free 
7:  that  un:\athorned.  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave 

Thither  all  earthly  r         and  :  list 
Rod.  :o  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
la  :ne  uark  wave. 


Tnither  :be  rrdghry  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 
And  tinkling  rilL 

Tbere  all  are  equal.     Side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 


I  will  no:  here  :^:b  the  throng 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And   s-rinb>".  :  'er  her  travraut  ieaves, 

X*.ei  pois^nou-  ^ew, 


To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, 

The  Eternal  Truth, — the  Good  and  Wiao— « 

To  Him  I  cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 
But  the  world  comprehended  not 
His  deity. 

This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above ; 

So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way 
Which  leads  no  traveler's  foot  astray 
From  realms  of  love. 

Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place, 
In  life  we  run  the  onward  race, 
And  reach  the  goal  ; 
When,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 
The  weary  soul. 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering 

thought 
To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 
Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 
For  which  we  wait. 


64  ICflttgfettow^  |0W, 


Yes, — the  glad  messenger  of  lovq 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 
The  Saviour  came  ; 
Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears. 
He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A  death  of  shame. 

Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 

The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 

The  shapes  we  chase, 

Amid  a  world  of  treachery  ! 

They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye, 

And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  us, — chances  strange 

Disastrous  accidents,  and  change, 

That  come  to  all ; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state, 

Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate,; 

The  strongest  fall. 

Tell  me, — the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 
The  hues  that  play 
O'er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow, 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow- 
Ah,  where  arc  they  ? 


The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 

The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 

In  life's  first  stage  ; 

These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight, 

When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 

To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name, 
Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 
In  long  array  ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time, 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a  stain, 
Their  fathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  high  estate  of  pride, 
With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 
How  soon  depart  ! 
Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 
The  vassals  of  a  mistress  they, 
Of  fickle  heart, 
5 


66  t§<m$UlW&  'gtttmg. 


These  gifts  in  Fortune's  hands  are  found; 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round 
And  they  are  gone  ! 
No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 
Still  hurries  on. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 
Reclaimed  its  prey, 
Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely ; 
Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 
And  where  are  they? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 

Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust,- 

They  fade  and  die  ; 

But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 

They  seal  the  immortal  spirit's  doom 

Eternally  ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life's  serious  task, 
What  are  they,  all, 
But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 
And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race, 
Wherein  we  fall  ? 


No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay, — but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein  ; 
And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 
We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 
But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a  cunning  art 
The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace, — 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power  1 
What  ardor  show, 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Yes  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within, 
In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong, 
Famous  in  history  and  in  song 
Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 
Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 
Their  race  sublime. 


68 


Who  is  the  champion  ?  who  the  strong  ? 

Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng? 

On  these  shall  fall 

As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath 

Beside  his  stall. 

I  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 
Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 
Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead, 
Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read 
Their  histories. 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago, 
Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 
Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 
Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 
Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Juan  ?  Where 
Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 
Of  Aragon  ? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 
The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 
In  battle  done? 


1'ourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye, 
And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply, 
And  nodding  plume, — 
What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene? 
What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 
That  deck  the  tomb  ? 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  wher* 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jeweled  hair, 
And  odors  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  loves  ardent  flame> 
Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 

The  dancers  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 

Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 

Such  power  and  pride  ; 

O,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 

The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 

His  throne  bcjiJe  !  s? 


But  0  !  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 
But  to  betray  ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  away. 

The  countless  gifts, — the  stately  walls, 

The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 

All  filled  with  gold  ; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 

Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 

Of  wealth  untold  ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight, 
In  rich  array, — 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ?    Alas  t 
Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 
Unskilled  to  reign  ; 
What  a  gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  ui  his  train  ! 


But  he  was  mortal ;  and  the  breath, 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death, 
Blasted  his  years  ; 

Judgment  of  God  !  that  flame  by  thee, 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 
Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable, — the  great 
And  gallant  Master, — cruel  fate 
Stripped  him  of  all. 
Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride,— 
He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 
Ignoble  fall  ! 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 
Hamlets  and  villas  green  and  fair, 
His  mighty  power, — 

What  were  they  all,  but  grief  and  shame^ 
Tears  and  a  broken  heart,  when  came 
The  parting  hour? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 
Might  rival  kings  ; 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest. 
Their  underlings ; 


What  was  their  prosperous  estate. 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 
With  power  and  pride  ? 
What,  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light, 
A  flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 
Grew  dim  and  died  ? 

So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name, 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 
And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  O  Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms, 
In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms, 
When  thou  dost  show, 
O  Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face, 
One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high, 
And  flag  displayed ; 
High  battlements  intrenched  around, 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 
And  palisade, 


And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep,— 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

O  Death,  from  thee, 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath, 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly. 

O  World !  so  few  the  years  we  live 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed  ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 
And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good, 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair  ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 


74  (§tttt$ftlUwf#  sgfimg. 


Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts  ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

hut  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade^ 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 
As  Virtue's  son, — 

Roderic  Manrique, — he  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 
Spain's  champion  ; 

His  signal  deeds  and  powers  high 
Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, — 
Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung? 
The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue, 
No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a  friend ;  how  kind  to  alJ 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief ! 

To  foes  how  stern  a  foe  was  he  I  [ 

And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 

How  brave  a  chief  I  ,  , 


What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise  ; 

What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties  ; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 

A  lion's  rage. 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star, 
The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car 
At  battle's  call ; 

His,  Scipio's  virtue ;  his,  the  skill 
And  the  indomitable  will 
Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a  Trajan's  goodness, — his 

A  Titus'  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws  ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 

Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause  ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 
Aurelius'  countenance  divine, 
Firm,  gentle,  still  ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 
And  generous  will ; 


76 


(gm$xtttmvf$  f  vim* 


In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command  ; 
The  faith  of  Constantine  ;  ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury, 
He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 
Nor  massive  plate  ; 

He  fought  the  Moors, — and,  in  their  fall 
Villa  and  tower  and  castled  wall 
Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground, 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A  common  grave  ; 

And  there  the  warriors  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train, 
The  conquered  gave. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 
So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 


77 


After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 
In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 
'T  was  his  to  share, 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 
And  fairer  regions,  than  before, 
His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced, 

Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 

On  history's  page  ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 

Each  fading  character  anew 

In  his  old  age. 

By  his  unrivaled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 
By  worth  adored, 
He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 
The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 
Knight  of  the  Sword. 

found  his  villas  and  domains 
Beneath  a  tyrant's  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power  ; 
But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 
Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 


78  pwgfeUfltt^  $0*m& 


By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 

Were  nobly  served  ; — 

Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 

And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 

His  arms  deserved. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 

Had  been  cast  down  ; 

When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal, 

Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crown  ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all  ; 
.  Then,  on  Ocana's  castled  rock, 
Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock 
With  sudden  call, — 

Saying,  "  Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 

Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armor  for  the  fray, — 
The  closing  scene. 


"Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strife, 

So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 

For  earthly  fame, 

Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again  ; 

Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 

They  call  thy  name. 

"Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  noar 

Too  terrible  for  man, — nor  fear 

To  meet  the  foe  ; 

Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 

Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 

On  earth  below. 

c<  A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 

Has  no  eternity  on  earth, — 

T  is  but  a  name  ; 

And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 

That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 

To  want  and  shame. 

"  The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky, 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate  ; 

The  soul  in  dalliance  laid, — the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin, — shall  not  inherit 
A  joy  so  great. 


So  ISottgffttaiv^  Wom#. 


"  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell, 

Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 

His  prayers  and  tears  ; 

And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endures 

fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 

His  standard  rears. 

"And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand  hast 
poured 

The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O'er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 
The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 

"Cheered  onward  by  his  promise  sure, 
Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 
jfhou  dost  profess, 
Depart, — thy  hope  is  certainty, — 
The  third — the  better  life  on  high 
Shalt  thou  possess." 

"O  Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay, 
My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 
And  be  at  rest ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be,— 
I  bow  to  the  divine  decree, 
To  God's  behest. 


"My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 

No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 

Breathes  forth  no  sigh ; 

The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 

Were  vain,  when 't  is  God's  sovereign  will 

That  we  shall  die. 

"  0  thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A  human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth  ; 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A  human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

u  And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here^ 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear, 
So  patiently  ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 
O,  pardon  me!" 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed, 

Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 

Upon  his  mind ; 

Encircled  by  his  family, 

Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye  ' 

So  soft  and  kind ; 


&2  fCflttgMlaw'tf  !$,*m$. 


His  soul  to  Him  who  gave  it  rose ; 
God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 
Its  glorious  rest ! 

And,  though  the  warrior's  sun  has  set, 
Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 
Bright,  radiant,  blest* 

*  This  poem  of  Manrique  is  a  great  favorite  in  Spain. 
No  less  than  four  poetic  Glosses,  or  running  commen- 
taries, upon  it  have  been  published,  no  one  of  which, 
however,  possesses  great  poetic  merit.  That  of  the 
Carthusian  monk,  Rodrigo  de  Valdepenas,  is  the  best. 
It  is  known  as  the  Glosa  del  Cartujo.  There  is  also  a 
prose  Commentary  by  Luis  de  Aranda. 

41 0  World !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 
Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed ! 

Alas !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast,  / 
Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed, 

u  Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 
And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good, 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  blow. 

The  following  stanzas  of  the  poem  were  found  in  the 
author' s  pocket,  after  his  death  on  the  field  of  battle : 


•Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

•Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groaiv 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 
And  weary  hearts ; 
Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 
But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow^. 
Its  form  departs," 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

Shepherd  !  that  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan 
song 

Hast  broken  the  slumber  which  encom- 
passed me, — 

That  mad'st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed 
tree, 

On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched 
so  long  ! 

Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing"  fountains ; 
For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide 
shalt  be  ; 

I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd ! — thou  who  for  thy  flock 
art  dying. 

O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 
■«* 


O,  wait  ! — to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  cry- 
ing,— 

Wait  for  me  ! — Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  'rt  wait- 
ing still  for  me  1 


TO-MORROW. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

Lord,    what   am  I,  that,  with  unceasing 
care, 

Thou  didst  seek  after  me, — that  thou  didst 
wait, 

Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the   gloomy   nights  of  winter 
there  ? 

O  strange  delusion  ! — that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blest  approach,  and  O,  to  Heaven  how 
lost, 

If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy 
feet 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
"Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou 
shalt  see 

How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  I  * 
86 


And,  O  I  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
"To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied, 
And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered 
still,  u  To-morrow, * 


THE  NATIVE  LAND 


PROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 

Clear  fount  of  light  !  my  native  land  on 
high, 

Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade ! 
Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  ; 
But,  sentineled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  pres- 
ence 

With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not, 
death. 

Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 
A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 
The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee ! 
Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 
Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the 
way, 

That,  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my 
dwelling  be, 
8S 


THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD. 


PROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 

0  Lord  !  that  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  wag 
bright ! 

Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast 
given, 

To  cheer  life's  flowery  April,  fast  decays  ; 
Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 
Celestial  King  !  O  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 
As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 
Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it 
there, 

And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 

89 


THE  BROOK. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH, 

Laugh  of  the  mountain  ! — lyre  of  bird  and 
tree  ! 

Pomp  of  the  meadow  !  mirror  of  the  morn  1 
The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 
The   rose   and  jessamine,  leaps    wild  in 
thee  ! 

Although,    where'er  thy    devious  current 
strays, 

The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 
To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shep- 
herd's gaze. 
How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  trans* 
parent 

As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles 
count  I 


How,  without  malice,  murmuring  glides  thy 
current ! 

O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  ! 
Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell 
in  limpid  fount  I 


THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 


PROM     DANTE.      PURGATORIO,  L 

And  now,  behold !    as  at  the  approach  of 
morning, 

Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mars  grows  fiery 
red 

Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor, 

Appeared  to  me, — would  I  again  could  see* 
it  !— 

A  light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coming, 
Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equaled, 

And  when  therefrom  I  had  withdrawn  a  little 
Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  con- 
ductor, 

Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 

Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 
I  knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath. 
Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  uiioUier. 
92 


93 


My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a  word, 
While  the  first  brightness  into  wings  un* 
folded  ; 

But,  when  he  clearly  recognized  the  pilot, 

He  cried  aloud:    " Quick,  quick,  and  hovt 
the  knee  ! 

Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !    fold  up  thy 
hands ! 

Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers  I 

"See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments. 
So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 
Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant 
shores  ! 

"See,  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight 
to  heaven, 

Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 
That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal 
hair ! " 

And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 
The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he  ap- 
peared, 

So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  presence, 


94  g^ngfeUou*'*.  IJocms, 


But  down  I  cast  it:  and  he  came  to  shore 
With  a  small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light, 
So  that  the  water  swallowed  nought  thereo£ 

Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot  1 

Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face  ! 

And  more  than  a  hundred  spirits  sat  within, 

"  In  exitu  Israel  out  of  Egypt  !  n 

Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice, 

With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  written. 

Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them, 
Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore^ 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE, 


FROM  DANTE.       FURGATORIO,  XXVIII. 

Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living -preen, 
Which  to  the  eyes  tempered  the  ~~w  born 
day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I  ?eft  the  ban, 
Crossing  the  level  county7"  s!o-\;**/,  slowly, 
Over  the  soil,   that  c  ^yrucre  breathed 
fragrance. 

A  gently-breatnin^  air,  '".  at  no  mutation 
Had  in  itself,  smote  mo  upon  the  forehead 
No  heavier  blow,  than  ol  a  pleasant  breeze, 

Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 
Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards  thai 
side 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Moun- 
tain ; 

95 


96  $Mg&lhwff  'gutrng. 


Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art ; 

But,   with  full-throated  joy,   the  hours  of 
prime 

Singing-  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage 
That  made   monotonous   burden  to  theit 
rhymes, 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering 
swells, 

Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of 
Chiassi, 

When  -^Eolus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 
Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 
Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I  had 
entered. 

And  lo  !  my  farther  course  cut  off  a  river, 
Which,  towards  the  left  hand,  with  its  little 
waves, 

Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  margin 
sprang. 


All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are 
Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some 
mixture, 

Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth 
conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a  brown,  brown 
current, 

Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  smn  lets  in,  nor  of  the  mooa. 
7 


BEATRICE. 


FROM  DANTE.      PURGATORIO,  XXX, ,  XXXt 

Even  as  the  Blessed,  in  the  new  covenant, 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his 
grave, 

Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh, 

So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A  hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  sem's, 

Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They    all    were    saying,     Benedictus  qiti 
vent's, " 

And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round 
about, 

•*  Manibus  o  date  /ilia  plenis, " 

I  once  beheld,  at  the  approach  of  day, 
The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues 
And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene 
adorned 

98 


!&fm%U\W$  §>0jem&  99 


And  the  sun's  face  uprising,  overshadowed, 
So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapors, 
The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long  while  ; 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers, 
Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown 
up, 

Aid  down  descended  inside  and  without, 

With  crown  of  olive  o'er  a  snow-white  veil, 
Appeared  a  lady,  under  a  green  mantle, 
Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 

•fs  s|s  jJ»  j}«  ifc 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 

Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 

Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, 

And  then  dissolving,  filters  through  itself, 
Whene'er   the   land,    that    loses  shadow* 

breathes. 
Like  as  a  taper  melts  before  a  fire, 

liven  such  I  was,  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 
Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  forever 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres  ; 


But,  when  I  heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 
Compassion  forme,  more  than  had  they  said, 
"O  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  con- 
sume him  ? 99 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed, 
To  air  and  water   changed,   and    in  my 
anguish, 

Through  lips  and  eyes  came  gushing  from 
my  breast 

*  *     .     *  *  * 

Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled, 
Forced  such  a  feeble  "Yes!"  out  of  my 
mouth, 

To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight 

Even  as  a  cross-bow  breaks,  when  'tis  dis- 
charged, 

Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and  the 
bow, 

And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the  mark ; 

So  I  gave  way  under  this  heavy  burden, 
Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs, 
And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its 
passage, 


SPRING. 


FROM   THE  FRENCH  OF  CHARLES  d'oRLKANSi, 

XV.  CENTURY. 

Gentle  Spring  ! — in  sunshine  clad, 
Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  J 

For  winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 
And  thou, — thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 

He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 

The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and 
the  rain  ; 

And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees,  so  old, 
Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow ; 

And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 
We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low  ; 

And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and 
weather, 

Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 

xoi 


102 


But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows 
clear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud ; 

But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 

And  the  earth  looks  bright  and  Winter  surly, 

Who  has  toiled  for  nought  both  late  and 
early, 

Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Sweet  babe  !    true  portrait  of  thy  fathers 

face, 

Sleep  on  the  bosom,  that  thy  lips  have 
pressed  ! 

Sleep,  little  one  ;   and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy    drowsy  eyelids    on   thy  mother's 
breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to 
me  ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ;— 
'Tis  sweet  to  watch  for  thee, — alone  for 
thee  ! 

His  arms  fall  down ;   sleep  sits  upon  his 
brow  ; 

His  eye  is  closed ;  he  sleeps,  nor  dreams 
of  harm. 

103 


xo4         %m$t\W$  f  *tw* 


Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 
Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's 
cold  arm  ? 

Awake,  my  boy  ! — I  tremble  with  affright ! 
Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought  !— 
Unclose 

Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 
Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose  1 

Sweet    error  ! — he  but  slept, — I  breathe 
again 

Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  steep 
beguile  I 

O,  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I  sigh  iu  vain. 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile? 


THE  GRAVE. 


FROM  THE  ANGLO-SAXOK. 

For  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wert  born, 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 
Now  I  bring  thee 
Where  thou  shall  be  ; 
Now  I  shalt  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered, 
It  is  unhigh  and  low ; 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low, 
The  side- ways  unhigh. 


The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh, 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould  • 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within  ; 
There  thou  art  fast  detain 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house* 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 
And  leavest  thy  friends  ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend, 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 
Who  will  ever  see 
How  that  house  pleaseth  theej 
Who  will  ever  open 
The  door  for  thee 
And  descend  after  thee, 
For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


KING  CHRISTIAN. 


A  NATIONAL  SONG  OF  DENMARK. 
FROM  THE  DANISH  OF  JOHANNES  EVALD. 

King  Christian  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke  ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 

In  mist  and  smoke. 
"  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  fly,  he  who  can  I 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke  ? " 

Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  roar, 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 
He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's 
roar 

107 


"Now  is  the  hour  !  " 
"Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  fly  1  " 
Of  Denmark's  Juel  who  can  defy 

The  power  ? " 

North  Sea  !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 
Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went  ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wait,  that  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 
From  Denmark,  thunders  Tordenskiol', 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly  ! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might  I 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 
Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might, 
Dark-rolling  wave  ! 
And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave  !  * 

*  Nils  Juel  was  a  celebrated  Danish  Admiral,  and 
Peder  Wessel,  a  Vice- Admiral,  who  for  his  great  prow- 
ess received  the  popular  title  of  Tordenskiold,  oxThun* 
ders-shield.  Tn  childhood  he  was  a  tailor's  apprentice* 
and  rose  to  his  hi^h  rank  before  the  age  of  twenty* 
eight,  when  he  was  killed  in  a  duel. 


THE  HAPPIEST  LANDL 


FRAGMENT  GF  A  MODERN  BALLAD. 
FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

There  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 
By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 
And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  rilled  their  cups> 

Around  the  rustic  board  ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 

But,  when  the  maid  departed, 

A  Swabian  raised  his  hand, 
And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  winep 

"  Long  live  the  Swabian  land  ! 

"The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 

Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 
With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 

And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there/* 

109 


no  i^ngftftow^  g om?» 


"  Ha  !  "  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing,— 
And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine  ; 

u  I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 
Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine  I 

"The  goodliest  land  on  all  the  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 

As  ringers  on  this  hand  !  " 

*'  Hold  your  tongues  !  both  Swabian  and 
Saxon  !  " 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 
"If  there's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lief 

"There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 
And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 

And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 
Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 

And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 

Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 
And  said,  ''Ye  may  no  more  contend,—^ 

There  Ilea  the  happiest  land  1  "  '  * 


'THE  WAVE. 


'FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  TIEDGE. 

♦'Whither,  thou  turbid  wave? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  thou  ?  " 

"I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margins  dust ;  , 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strifa 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 
To  the  Sea's  immensity, 
To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time." 


THE  DEAD. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  KLOPSTOCK. 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All,  all  the  holy  dead, 
Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near ! 
How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All  in  their  silent  graves, 
Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking ! 

And  they  no  longer  weep, 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still  I 
And  they  no  longer  feel, 
Here,  where  all  gladness  flies  ! 
And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  overshadowed, 
Until  the  Angel 
Calls  them,  they  slumber  I 


't 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLEK* 

u  The  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 

By  castle  and  town  they  go ; 
The  winds  behind  them  merrily 

Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

u  The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 

We  little  birds  in  them  play  ; 
And  everything,  that  can  sing  and  fly, 

Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 

u  I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat  I    Whither,  of 
whence 

With  thy  fluttering  golden  band  ?  "— 
€€  I  greet,  thee,  little  bird  I    To  the  wide  sea 
I  haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

*'  Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail ; 

I  see  no  longer  a  hill, 
I  have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale^ 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  stiU. 
8  113 


H4  ItottflfeUflw'tf  ^ntm$. 


4t  And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us? 

Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast  taJl, 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 

With  merry  companions  all" — 

°  I  need  not  and  seek  not  company, 
Bonny  boat,  I  can  sing  all  alone  ; 

For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 
Bonny  boat,  I  have  wings  of  my  own, 

"  High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast, 

Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ? 
When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at 

last, 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may; 

God  bless  them  every  one  ! 
I  dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

* 4  Thus  do  I  sing  my  weary  song, 
Wherever  the  four  winds  blow  ; 

And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long; 
Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know," 


WHITHER? 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLEBU 

I  heard  a  brooklet  gushing 
From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 

Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 
Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 

But  I  must  hasten  downward, 
All  with  my  pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward,  and  ever  farther, 
And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 

And  ever  fresher  murmured, 
And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I  was  going? 

Whither,  O  brooklet,  say  ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 

Murmured  my  senses  away. 


xi6  fjfoagfcttflttfa  f$t*mg. 


What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 

Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmui; 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 
The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear. 


BEWARE ! 


FROM  THE  GERMAK. 

I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care  ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be^ 

Beware  !  Beware  I 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 

Take  care ! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down, 

Beware  !  Beware  1 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue, 

Take  care  ! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 

Beware  !  Beware  I 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  1 

"7 


She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care  ! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show, 

Beware  !  Beware  1 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair. 

Take  care  ! 
It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware  !  Beware  1 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  1 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Bell  !  thou  soundest  merrily. 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

Bell  !  thou  soundest  merrily  ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh  ! 
Bell  !  thou  soundest  mournfully  j 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

Say  !  how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull  I 
And  yet  aJl  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 


God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  he  cannot  fathom  ! 

Placed  within  thy  form! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 

Trembling  in  the  storm  I 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLANBt 

u  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle^ 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 

The  clouds  float  gorgeously, 

•'And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward, 

To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 

In  the  evening's  crimson  glow/* 

"Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

"The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambcii 

The  harp  and  the  ministrers  rhyme  ? 99 

ill 


i22  f^ottgfenour'jg  gttng. 


4t  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly, 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wai^ 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye/' 

4 'And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride  ? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantle* ? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride? 

"Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  99 

"Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woc^ 

No  maiden  was  by  their  side  1 " 


211 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

T  was  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake  : 
4 'So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls, 

A  luxuriant  Spring  shall  break. 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 

From  balcony  the  King  looked  on ; 
In  the  play  of  spears, 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  Knight, 

' '  Sir  Knight!  your  name  and  scutcheon* 

say  !  " 

"Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear ; 
I'm  a  Prince  of  mighty  sway  !  " 

"3 


124  <jgm$ttUMCf#  35 atm. 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  Heaven  grew  black  with  mists 

And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow, 
Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 

Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances  j 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin ; 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 

Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame. 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined, 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 


Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  breaker  took  ; 

"  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  1 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  ; 

"  O  that  draught  was  very  cool  1  * 

Each  the  father  s  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter ;  and  their  faces 

Colorless  grow  utterly. 
Whichever  way 

Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 
He  beholds  his  children  die. 

"Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  I  * 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast; 

"Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  1 " 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SALIS. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in  the  evening    sky  more  darkly 
gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the 
strand 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Thither,  O  thither, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !    Tender  morning-visions 

Of  beauteous  souls  !    The  Future's  pledge 

and  band  ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  find  doth  stand, 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  1 

126 


Jtm%1felfom*s  ]Pxqtn$*  I27 


OLand!    O  Land! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  alloted, 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Into  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 


L'ENVOI. 


Ye  voices,  that  arose 

After  the  Evening  s  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose! 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 

Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them,  "  Be  of  good  cheer! m 

Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm, 

That  in  the  groves  of  balm 

Seemed  to  me  like  an  angels  psalm  f 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar  ! 

Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 
But  speaking  from  death's  frost, 
Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 
Amid  the  chills  and  •damps 
Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps  I 
128 


BALLADS 

AND  OTHER  POEMSb 

7.m  wi 


PREFACE. 


There  is  one  poem  in  this  volume,  in  ref- 
erence to  which  a  few  introductory  remarks 
may  be  useful.  It  is  The  Children  of  the 
Lord's  Supper,  from  the  Swedish  of  Bishop 
Tegner  ;  a  poem  which  enjoys  no  incon- 
siderable reputation  in  the  North  of  Europe, 
and  for  its  beauty  and  simplicity  merits  the 
attention  of  English  readers.  It  is  an  Idyl, 
descriptive  of  scenes  in  a  Swedish  village ; 
and  belongs  to  the  same  class  of  poems  as 
the  Luise  ot  Voss  and  the  Hermann  und 
Dorothea  of  Goethe.  But  the  Swedish  Poet 
has  been  guided  by  a  surer  taste  than  his 
German  predecessors.  His  tone  is  pure 
and  elevated  ;  and  he  rarely,  if  ever,  mistakes 
what  is  trivial  for  what  is  simple. 

There  is  something  patriarchal  still  linger- 
ing about  rural  life  in  Sweden,  which  renders 
it  a  fit  theme  for  song.  Almost  primeval 
simplicity  reigns  over  that  Northern  land, — 
almost  primeval  solitude  and  stillness.  You 

I3I 


132  %nmg, 


pass  out  from  the  gate  of  the  city,  and,  as 
if  by  magic,  the  scene  changes  to  a  wild, 
woodland  landscape.  Around  you  are 
forests  of  fir.  Overhead  hang  the  long,  fan- 
like branches,  trailing  with  moss,  and  heavy 
with  red  and  blue  cones.  Under  foot  is  a 
carpet  of  yellow  leaves  ;  and  the  air  is 
waim  and  balmy.  On  a  wooden  bridge 
you  cross  a  little  silver  stream  ;  and  anon 
come  forth  into  a  pleasant  and  sunny  land 
of  farms.  Wooden  fences  divide  the  adjoin- 
ing fields.  Across  the  road  are  gates,  which 
are  opened  by  troops  of  children.  The 
peasants  take  off  their  hats  as  you  pass  ; 
you  sneeze,  and  they  cry,  "  God  bless  you." 
The  houses  in  the  villages  and  smaller  towns 
are  all  built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for  the  most 
part  painted  red.  The  floors  of  the  taverns 
are  strewn  with  the  fragrant  tips  of  fir 
boughs.  In  many  villages  there  are  no 
taverns,  and  the  peasants  take  turns  in  re- 
ceiving travelers.  The  thrifty  housewife 
shows  you  into  the  best  chamber,  the  walls 
of  which  are  hung  round  with  rude  pictures 
from  the  Bible  ;  and  brings  you  her  heavy 
silver  spoons,— an  heirloom, — to  d:p  the 
curdled  milk  from  the  pan.     You  have  oaten 


^mQftilm'z  'gatw.  133 


cakes  baked  some  months  before  ;  or  bread 
with  anise-seed  and  coriander  in  it,  or  per- 
haps a  little  pine  bark. 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought 
his  horses  from  the  plough,  and  harnessed 
them  to  your  carriage.  Solitary  travelers 
come  and  go  in  uncouth  one-horse  chaises. 
Most  of  them  have  pipes  in  their  mouths, 
and  hanging  around  their  necks  in  front,  a 
leather  wallet,  in  which  they  carry  tobacco, 
and  the  great  bank-notes  of  the  country,  as 
large  as  your  two  hands.  You  meet,  also, 
groups  of  Dalekarlian  peasant  women, 
traveling  homeward  or  town  ward  in  pursuit 
of  work.  They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in 
their  hands  their  shoes,  which  have  high 
heels  under  the  hollow  of  the  foot,  and  soles 
of  birch  bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches, 
standing  by  the  road-side,  each  in  its  own 
little  garden  of  Gethsemane.  In  the  parish 
register  great  events  are  doubtless  recorded. 
Some  old  king  was  christened  or  buried  in 
that  church ;  and  a  little  sexton,  with  a 
rusty  key,  shows  you  the  baptismal  font,  or 
fhe  coffin.  In  the  churchyard  are  a  few 
il  "T^-;,  Lnd  much  crecn  rrass ;  and  daily 


the  shadow  of  the  church  spire,  with  ite 
Jong  tapering  fingers  counts  the  tombs,  rep- 
resenting a  dial-plate  of  human  life,  on 
which  the  hours  and  minutes  are  the  graves 
of  men.  The  stones  are  flat,  and  large,  and 
low,  and  perhaps  sunken,  like  the  roofs  of 
old  houses.  On  some  are  armorial  bearings  ; 
on  others  only  the  initials  of  the  poor  ten- 
ants, with  a  date,  as  on  the  roofs  of  Dutch 
cottages.  They  all  sleep  with  their  heads 
to  the  westward.  Each  held  a  lighted  taper 
in  his  hand  when  he  died ;  and  in  his  coffin 
were  placed  his  little  heart-treasures,  and  a 
piece  of  money  for  his  last  journey.  Babes 
that  came  lifeless  into  the  world  were  carried 
in  the  arms  of  gray- haired  old  men  to  the 
only  cradle  they  ever  slept  in  ;  and  in  the 
shroud  of  the  dead  mother  were  laid  the 
little  garments  of  the  child  that  lived  and 
died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this  scene 
ihe  village  pastor  looks  from  his  window  in 
ihe  stillness  of  midnight,  and  says  in  his 
heart,  "  How  quietly  they  rest,  all  the  de- 
parted !  " 

Near  the  churchyard  gate  stands  a  poor- 
box,  fastened  to  a  post  by  iron  bands,  and 
secured  by  a  padlock,  with  a  sloping  wooden 


l&m$t\W#  g0*m#.  13s 


roof  to  keep  off  the  rain.  If  it  be  Sunday, 
the  peasants  sit  on  the  church  steps  and 
con  their  psalm-books.  Others  are  coming 
down  the  road  with  their  beloved  pastor, 
who  talks  to  them  of  holy  things  from  be- 
neath his  broad-brimmed  hat.  He  speaks 
of  fields  and  harvests,  and  of  the  parable  of 
the  sower,  that  went  forth  to  sow.  He 
leads  them  to  the  Good  Shepherd,  and  to 
the  pleasant  pastures  of  the  spirit-land.  He 
is  their  patriarch,  and,  like  Melchizedek, 
both  priest  and  king,  though  he  has  no 
other  throne  than  the  church  pulpit.  The 
women  carry  psalm-books  in  their  hands, 
wrapped  in  silk  handkerchiefs,  and  listen 
devoutly  to  the  good  man's  words.  But  the 
young  men,  like  Gallio,  care  for  none  of 
these  things.  They  are  busy  counting  the 
plaits  in  the  kirtles  of  the  peasant  girls, 
their  number  being  an  indication  of  the 
wearer's  wealth.    It  may  end  in  a  wedding. 

I  will  endeavor  to  describe  a  village  wed- 
ding in  Sweden.  It  shall  be  in  summer 
time,  that  there  may  be  flowers,  and  in  a 
southern  province,  that  the  bride  may  be 
fair.  The  early  song  of  the  lark  and  of 
chanticleer  are  mingling  in  the  clear  morn- 


136  7&fM$ti\lm9# 


ing  air,  and  tke  sun,  the  heavenly  bride- 
groom with  golden  locks,  arises  in  the  east, 
just  as  our  earthly  bridegroom  with  yellow 
hair  arises  in  the  south.  In  the  yard, 
there  is  a  sound  of  voices  and  trampling  of 
hoofs,  and  horses  are  led  forth  and  saddled. 
The  steed  that  is  to  bear  the  bridegroom 
has  a  bunch  of  flowers  upon  his  forehead, 
and  a  garland  of  corn-flowers  around  his 
neck.  Friends  from  the  neighboring  farms 
come  riding  in,  their  blue  cloaks  streaming 
to  the  wind;  and  finally  the  happy  bride- 
groom, with  a  whip  in  his  hand,  and  a 
monstrous  nosegay  in  the  breast  of  his 
black  jacket,  comes  forth  from  his  chamber ; 
and  then  to  horse  and  away,  toward  the 
village  where  the  bride  already  sits  and 
waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  Spokesman,  followed 
by  some  half-dozen  village  musicians.  Next 
comes  the  bridegroom  between  his  two 
groomsmen,  and  then  forty  or  fifty  friends 
and  wedding  guests,  half  of  them  perhaps 
with  pistols  and  guns  in  their  hands.  A 
kind  of  baggage-wagon  brings  up  the  rear, 
laden  with  food  and  drink  for  these  merry 
pilgrims.    At  the  entrance  of  every  village 


|0ti8feItDfrt  ^ntm.  137 

Stands  a  triumphal  arch,  adorned  with 
flowers  and  ribbons  and  evergreens ;  and 
as  they  pass  beneath  it  the  wedding  guests 
fire  a  salute,  and  the  whole  procession 
stops.  And  straight  from  every  pocket  flies 
a  black-jack,  filled  with  punch  or  brandy. 
It  is  passed  from  hand  to  hand  among  the 
crowd ;  provisions  are  brought  from  the 
wagon,  and  after  eating  and  drinking  and 
hurrahing,  the  procession  moves  forward 
again,  and  at  length  draws  near  the  house 
of  the  bride.  Four  heralds  ride  forward  to 
announce  that  a  knight  and  his  attendants 
are  in  the  neighboring  forest,  and  pray  for 
hospitality.  "  How  many  are  you?  \  asks 
the  bride's  father.  "At  least  three  hun- 
dred, "  is  the  answer ;  and  to  this  the  host 
replies,  "Yes;  were  you  seven  times  as 
many,  you  should  all  be  welcome  ;  and  in 
token  thereof  receive  this  cup. "  Whereupon 
each  herald  receives  a  can  of  ale  ;  and  soon 
after  the  whole  jovial  company  comes 
storming  into  the  farmers  yard,  and,  riding 
round  the  May-pole,  which  stands  in  the 
centre,  alights  amid  a  grand  salute  and 
flourish  of  music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a  crown 


upon  her  head  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  like 
the  Virgin  Mary  in  old  church  paintings. 
She  is  dressed  in  a  red  bodice  and  kirtle, 
with  loose  linen  sleeves.  There  is  a  gilded 
belt  around  her  waist ;  and  around  her 
Heck  strings  of  golden  beads,  and  a  golden 
chain.  On  the  crown  rests  a  wreath  of 
wild  roses,  and  below  it  another  of  cypress. 
Loose  over  her  shoulders  falls  her  flaxen 
hair  ;  and  her  blue  innocent  eyes  are  fixed 
upon  the  ground.  O  thou  good  soul !  thou 
hast  hard  hands,  but  a  soft  heart !  Thou 
art  poor.  The  very  ornaments  thou  wearest 
are  not  thine.  They  have  been  hired  for 
this  great  day.  Yet  art  thou  rich ;  rich 
in  health,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in  thy 
first,  young,  fervent  love.  The  blessing 
of  heaven  be  upon  thee !  So  thinks  the 
parish  priest,  as  he  joins  together  the  hands 
of  bride  and  bridegroom,  saying  in  deep, 
solemn  tones,  —  "1  give  thee  in  marriage 
this  damsel,  to  be  thy  wedded  wife  in  all 
honor,  and  to  share  the  half  of  thy  bed,  thy 
lock  and  key,  and  every  third  penny  which 
you  two  may  possess,  or  may  inherit,  and 
all  the  rights  which  Upland's  laws  provide, 
and  the  holy  king  Erik  gave," 


The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride 
sits  between  the  bridegroom  and  the  priest 
The  Spokesman  delivers  an  oration  after  the 
ancient  custom  of  his  fathers.  He  interlards 
it  well  with  quotations  from  the  Bible  ;  and 
invites  the  Saviour  to  be  present  at  this 
marriage  feast,  as  he  was  at  the  marriage 
feast  in  Cana  of  Galilee.  The  table  is  not 
sparingly  set  forth.  Each  makes  a  long 
arm,  and  the  feast  goes  cheerily  on. 
Punch  and  brandy  pass  round  between  the 
courses,  and  here  and  there  a  pipe  is  smoked, 
while  waiting  for  the  next  dish.  They  sit 
long  at  table  ;  but,  as  all  things  must  have 
an  end,  so  must  a  Swedish  dinner.  Then 
the  dance  begins.  It  is  led  off  by  the  bride 
and  the  priest,  who  perform  a  solemn 
minuet  together.  Not  till  after  midnight 
comes  the  Last  Dance.  The  girls  form  a 
ring  around  the  bride,  to  keep  her  from  the 
hands  of  the  married  women,  who  endeavor 
to  break  through  the  magic  circle,  and  seize 
their  new  sister.  After  long  struggling  they 
succeed ;  and  the  crown  is  taken  from  her 
head  and  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  and  her 
bodice  is  unlaced  and  her  kirtle  taken  off ; 
and  like  a  vestal  virgin  clad  all  in  white  she 


140  ]£,ttttg(cllmf$  ^nmg. 

goes,  but  it  is  to  her  marriage  chamber,  not 
to  her  grave  ;  and  the  wedding  guests  fol- 
low her  with  lighted  candles  in  their  hands. 
And  this  is  a  village  bridal. 

Nor  must  I  forget  the  suddenly  changing 
seasons  of  the  Northern  clime.  There  is  no 
long  and  lingering  spring,  unfolding  leaf 
and  blossom  one  by  one  ; — no  long  and 
lingering  autumn,  pompous  with  many- 
colored  leaves  and  the  glow  of  Indian  sum- 
mers. But  winter  and  summer  are  wonder- 
ful, and  pass  into  each  other.  The  quail 
has  hardly  ceased  piping  in  the  corn,  when 
winter  from  the  folds  of  trailing  clouds  sows 
broadcast  over  the  land  snow,  icicles,  and 
rattling  hail.  The  days  wane  apace.  Ere 
long  the  sun  hardly  rises  above  the  horizon 
or  does  not  rise  at  all.  The  moon  and  the 
stars  shine  through  the  day  ;  only,  at  noon, 
they  are  pale  and  wan,  and  in  the  southern 
sky  a  red,  fiery  glow,  as  of  sunset,  burns 
along  the  horizon,  and  then  goes  out.  And 
pleasantly  under  the  silver  moon,  and  under 
the  silent,  solemn  stars,  ring  the  steel-shoes 
of  the  skaters  on  the  frozen  sea,  and  voices, 
and  the  sound  of  bells. 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to 


burn,  faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  playing 
in  the  waters  of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a  soft 
crimson  glow  tinges  the  heavens.  There  is 
a  blush  on  the  cheek  of  night.  The  colors 
come  and  go  ;  and  change  from  crimson  to 
gold,  from  gold  to  crimson.  The  snow  is 
stained  with  rosy  light.  Twofold  from  the 
zenith,  east  and  west,  flames  a  fiery  sword ; 
and  a  broad  band  passes  athwart  the  heavens, 
like  a  summer  sunset.  Soft  purple  clouds 
come  sailing  over  the  sky,  and  through  their 
vapory  folds  the  winking  stars  shine  w  hite 
as  silver.  With  such  pomp  as  this  is  Merry 
Christmas  ushered  in,  though  only  a  single 
star  heralded  the  first  Christmas.  And  in 
memory  of  that  day  the  Swedish  peasants 
dance  on  straw  ;  and  the  peasant  girls 
throw  straws  at  the  timbered  roof  of  the  hall, 
and  for  every  one  that  sticks  in  a  crack  shall 
a  groomsman  come  to  their  wedding.  Merry 
Christmas,  indeed  !  For  pious  souls  there 
shall  be  church  songs  and  sermons,  but  for 
Swedish  peasants,  brandy  and  nut  brown 
ale  in  wooden  bowls  ;  and  the  great  Yule- 
cake  crowned  wtih  a  cheese,  and  garlanded 
With  apples,  and  uoholding  a  three-armed 
candlestick  over  the  Christmas  feast.  They 


may  tell  tales,  too,  of  Jons  Lundsbracka, 
and  Lunkenfus,  and  the  great  Riddar  Finke 
Df  Pingsdaga.  * 
And  now  the  glad,  leafy  midsummer,  full 

of  blossoms  and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is 
come  !  Saint  John  has  taken  '  the  flowers 
and  festival  of  heathen  Balder  ;  and  in  every 
village  there  is  a  May-pole  fifty  feet  high, 
with  wreaths  and  roses  and  ribbons  stream- 
ing in  the  wind,  and  a  noisy  weathercock 
on  top  to  tell  the  village  whence  the  wind 
cometh  and  whither  it  goeth.  The  sun  does 
not  set  till  ten  o'clock  at  night ;  and  the 
children  are  at  play  in  the  streets  an  hour 
later.  The  windows  and  doors  are  all  open, 
and  you  may  sit  and  read  till  midnight  with- 
out a  candle.  0  how  beautiful  is  the  sum- 
mer night,  which  is  not  night,  but  a  sun- 
less yet  unclouded  day,  descending  upon 
earth  with  dews,  and  shadows,  and  refresh- 
ing coolness !  How  beautiful  the  long, 
mild  twilight,  which  like  a  silver  clasp 
unites  to-day  with  yesterday  !  How  beauti- 
ful the  silent  hour,  when  Morning  and  Even- 
ing thus  sit  together,  hand  in  hand,  beneath 

*  Titles  of  Swedish  popular  tales. 


H3 


the  starless  sky  of  midnight !  From  the 
church-tower  in  the  public  square  the  bell 
tolls  the  hour,  with  a  soft,  musical  chime ; 
and  the  watchman,  whose  watch-tower  is 
the  belfry,  blows  a  blast  in  his  horn,  for 
each  stroke  of  the  hammer,  and  four  times, 
to  the  four  corners  of  the  heavens,  in  a  soj> 
orous  voice  he  chaunts, — 

M  Ho  !  watchman,  ho  ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  ! 
God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand 
And  hostile  hand ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  1 99 

From  his  swallow's  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can 
see  the  sun  all  night  long  ;  and  farther  north 
the  priest  stands  at  his  door  in  the  warm 
midnight,  and  lights  his  pipe  with  a  common 
burning  glass. 

I  trust  that  these  remarks  will  not  be 
deemed  irrelevant  to  the  poem,  but  will  lead 
to  a  clearer  understanding  of  it.  The  trans- 
lation is  literal,  perhaps  to  a  fault.  In  no 
instance  have  I  done  the  author  a  wrong, 
by  introducing  into  his  work  any  supposed 
improvements    or   embellishments   of  my 


i44  ^0ttjjf*lt0w'0  f  nmg. 


own.  I  have  preserved  even  the  measure; 
that  inexorable  hexameter,  in  which,  it  must 
be  confessed,  the  motions  of  the  English 
Muse  are  not  unlike  those  of  a  prisoner  danc- 
ing to  the  music  of  his  chains;  and  perhaps, 
as  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  the  dancing  dog, 
"the  wonder  is  not  that  she  should  do  it  so 
well,  but  that  she  should  do  it  at  all. " 

Esaias  Tegner,  the  author  of  this  poem, 
was  born  in  the  parish  of  By  in  Warmland, 
in  the  year  1782.  In  1799  he  entered  the 
University  of  Lund,  as  a  student ;  and  in 
181 2  was  appointed  Professor  of  Greek  in 
that  institution.  In  1824  he  became  Bishop 
of  Wexio,  which  office  he  still  holds.  He 
stands  first  among  all  the  poets  of  Sweden, 
giving  or  dead.  His  principal  work  is 
Frithiofs  Saga ;  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able poems  of  the  age.  This  modern  Scald 
has  written  his  name  in  immortal  runes. 
He  is  the  glory  and  boast  of  Sweden ;  a 
prophet,  honored  in  his  own  country,  and 
adding  one  moro  to  the  list  of  great  names, 
that  aauru  ixer  iustory. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 


[The  following  Ballad  was  suggested  to  me  while 
riding  on  the  seashore  at  Newport.  A  year  or  two 
previous  a  skeleton  had  been  dug  up  at  Fall  River, 
clad  in  broken  and  corroded  armor;  and  the  idea 
occurred  to  me  of  connecting  it  with  the  Round  Tower 
at  Newport,  generally  known  hitherto  as  the  Old  Wind- 
Mill,  though  now  claimed  by  the  Danes  as  a  work  of 
their  early  ancestors.  Professor  Rafn,  in  the  Memoires 
de  la  Societe  Roy  ale  dzs  Antiquaires  du  Nord^  for 
1 838- 1 839,  says : 

"  There  is  no  mistaking  in  this  instance  the  style  in. 
which  the  more  ancient  stone  edifices  of  the  North  were 
constructed,  the  style  which  belongs  to  the  Roman  or 
Ante-Gothic  architecture,  and  which,  especially,  after 
the  time  of  Charlemagne,  diffused  itself  from  Italy  over 
the  whole  of  the  West  and  the  North  of  Europe,  where 
it  continued  to  predominate  until  the  close  of  the  12th 
century ;  that  style,  which  some  authors  have,  from  one 
of  its  most  striking  characteristics,  called  the  round  arch 
style,  the  same  which  in  England  is  denominated  Saxon 
and  sometimes  Norman  architecture. 

"  On  the  ancient  structure  in  Newport  there  are  no 
ornaments  remaining,  which  might  possible  have  served 
to  guide  us  in  assigning  the  probably  date  of  its 
erection.  That  no  vestige  whatever  is  found  of  the 
pointed  arch  nor  any  approximation  10  ii,  U  indicative  of 


146  &mtftVl*vf#  f 0jems. 


an  earlier  rather  than  of  a  later  period.  From  cuch  chai* 
acteristics  as  remain,  however,  we  can  scarcely  form  any 
other  inference  than  one,  in  which  I  am  persuaded  that 
all,  who  are  familiar  with  Old-Northern  architecture, 

Will  Concur,  THAT  THIS  BUILDING  WAS  ERECTED  AT  A. 
PERIOD  DECIDEDLY  NOT  LATER  THAN  THE  I2TH  CEN- 
TURY. This  remark  applies,  of  course,  to  the  original 
building  only,  and  not  to  the  alterations  that  it  subse- 
quently received ;  for  there  are  several  such  alterations 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  building  which  cannot  be  mis- 
taken, and  which  were  most  likely  occasioned  by  its  be- 
ing adapted  in  modern  times  to  various  uses,  for  ex- 
ample as  the  substructure  of  a  wind-mill,  and  latterly  as 
a  hay  magazine.  To  the  same  times  may  be  referred  th« 
windows,  the  fireplace,  and  the  apertures  made  above 
the  columns.  That  this  building  could  not  have  been 
erected  for  a  wind-mill,  is  what  an  architect  will  easily 
discern." 

I  will  not  enter  into  a  discussion  of  the  point.  It  is 
sufficiently  well  established  for  the  purpose  of  a  ballad; 
though  doubtless  many  an  honest  citizen  of  Newport^ 
who  has  passed  his  days  within  sight  of  the  Round 
Tower,  will  be  ready  to  exclaim  with  Sancho  ;  "  God. 
bless  me  !  did  I  not  warn  you  to  have  a  care  of  what 
you  were  doing,  for  that  it  was  nothing  but  a  wind-mill; 
and  nobody  could  mistake  it,  but  one  who  had  the  lika 
in  his  head."] 

"  Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest  1 
*        Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest,  , 
.  Comest  to  daunt  me  I 


Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fieshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  * 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber, 

"I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Ska.ld  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  I 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curs* 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

**  Far  in  the  Northern  Land,  j 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand* 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 
Tamed  the  ger-falcon; 


And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

u  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare  i 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf s  barl^ 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow, 

u  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led;  , 
•Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled. 

By  our  stern  orders. 

H  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing. 


As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 
Filled  to  overflowing: 

*'Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 
Burning  yet  tender  ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted 

*  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 
Chaunting  his  glory  \ 


When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter  s  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand( 
To  hear  my  story, 

u  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

•'She  was  a  Princes  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded? 

•'Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me,— 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  1—- 


When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 
With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blasts 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us : 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hai^ 

Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 
Through  the  black  water! 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 
With  his  prey  laden, 


5 2       J&attgifeHMu's  ^0^m$. 


So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 
Bore  I  the  maiden. 

'  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee- ward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  sea- ward. 

There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dries  the  maiden's  tears 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another! 

Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 
The  sunlight  hateful! 


"  In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful! 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  Skoal/'1* 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 

*  In  Scandinavia  this  is  the  customary  salutation 
when  drinking  a  health.  I  have  slightly  changed  the 
orthography  of  the  word,  in  order  to  preserve  the  cor- 
rect pronunciation. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERU3L 


It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea  ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter. 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  her   bosom  white   as  the  hawthorn 
buds, 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

With  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
And  watched   how  the  veering-  flaw  did 
blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 
"I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 
*54 


gottflfdtow'j  $tmt.  iSS 


u  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  !  " 

The  skipper  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain, 

The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted 
steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"Come  hither!    come  hither!    my  little 
daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale, 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped   her  warm  in   his  seaman's 

coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast  ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 
And  hound  her  to  the  mast. 


4t0  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
**T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast  I* 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

O  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 
O  say,  what  may  it  be  ? " 
4t  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 
In  such  an  angry  sea  !  " 

4'0  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  to  the  skies, 
The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming 
snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and 
prayed 
That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the 

wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  CV.^e, 


KT 


And  fast   through  the  midnight  dark  and 
drear, 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe, 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf, 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bowsr 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She    struck  where    the  white    and  fleecy 
waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side  ; 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 

With  the  masts  went  by  the  board  ; 
Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  strove  and  sank 
.   Ho  !  Ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 


At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea« 

weed 

On  the  billows  Tall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this^ 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  1 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

[The  tradition,  upon  which  this  ballad  is  founded, 
and  the  "shards  of  the  Lucfe  of  Edenhall,"  still  exist 
in  England.  The  goblet  is  in  the  possession  of  Sir 
Christopher  Musgrave,  Bart.,  of  Eden  Hall,  Cumber- 
land; and  is  not  so  entirely  shattered,  as  the  ballad 
leaves  it.] 

Of  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord 

Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet's  call : 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries,  'mid  the  drunken  revelers  all, 

"  Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  1* 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pah> 
The  house's  oldest  seneschal, 
Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking  glass  of  crystal  tall ; 
They  call  it  the  LucK  of  Edenhall. 

Then  said  the  Lord  :  "This  glass  to  praise, 

Fill  with  red  wine  fro.n  Portugal  !  " 

The  gray-beard  w:th  trembling  hand  obeys  ; 

159 


i6o  !&im%ti\\m'#  ^ntxa\ 


A  purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light, 
''This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite ; 
She  wrote  in  it  :  If  this  glass  doth  fall 
Farewell  then,  0  Luck  of Edenhall 7 

"'T  was  right  a  goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall  ! 
Deep  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly ; 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 
Kling  !  klang  !  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  I  * 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 
Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale  ; 
Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild  ; 
Then   mutters  at   last  like  the  thunder's 
fall, 

The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall 

"  For  its  keeper  takes  a  race  of  might, 

The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall  ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right  ; 

Kling  !  klang  ! — with  a  harder  blow  than  aH 

Will  I  try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  1  " 


As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall  ; 
And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames  start ; 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all, 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword; 
He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall, 
Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  Lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone, 
The  gray-beard  in  the  desert  hall, 
He  seeks  his  Lord's  burnt  skeleton 
He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin's  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

"The  stone  wall,"   saith  he,    "doth  fall 
aside, 

Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall ; 
Glass  is  this  earth's  Luck  and  Pride ; 
In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall!  * 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 


FROM    THE  DANISH. 


[The  following  strange  and  somewhat  mystical  bal* 
lad  is  from  Nyerup  and  Rahbek's  Danske  Viser  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  seems  to  refer  to  the  first  preaching 
of  Christianity  in  the  North,  and  to  the  institution  of 
Knight-Errantry.  The  three  maidens  I  suppose  to  be 
Xaith,  Hope,  and  Charity.  The  irregularities  of  the 
original  have  been  carefully  preserved  in  the  transla- 
tion.] 

Sir  Oluf  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 
Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles 
wide, 

But  never,  ah  never  can  meet  with  the  man 
A  tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 

He  saw  under  the  hill-side 

A  Knight  full  well  equipped  ; 
His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred  ; 

He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 
Twelve  little  golden  birds  ; 
162 


Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a  clang, 
And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 

Twelve  little  golden  wheels  ; 
Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  b' 

And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they 
flew. 

He  wore  before  his  breast 

A  lance  that  was  poised  in  rest ; 

And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone, 
It  made  Sir  Oluf  s  heart  to  groan. 

He  wore  upon  his  helm 

A  wreath  of  ruddy  gold  ; 
And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 

The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  Knight  eftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down  ; 

"  Art  thou  Christ  of  Heaven,"  quoth  he, 
"So  will  I  yield  me  unto  thee." 

4t  I  am  not  Christ  the  Great, 

Thou  shalt  not  yield  thee  yet ; 
I  am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three  modest  Maidens  have  me  bedight#f 


*64        ^ougf^ilniu'a  yum*. 


1  '  Art  thou  a  Knight  elected, 

And  have  three  Maidens  thee  bedight; 
For  shalt  thou  ride  a  tilt  this  day, 

For  all  the  Maidens'  honor!" 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode, 
Neither  of  them  would  yield; 

The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain, 
And  their  blood  runs  unto  death; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower, 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S 

SUPPER. 


FROM  THE  SWEDISH  OF  BISHOP  TEGNOR. 

Pentecost,  day  of  rejoicing,  had  come.  The 

church  of  the  village 
Stood  gleaming  white  in  the  morning's  sheen. 

On  the  spire  of  the  belfry, 
Tipped  with  a  vane  of  metal,  the  friendly 

flames  of  the  Spring-sun 
Glanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire,  beheld  by 

Apostles  aforetime. 
Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  May, 

with  her  cap  crowned  with  roses, 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and 

the  wind  and  the  brooklet 
Murmured  gladness  and  peace,  God's-peace ! 

With  lips  rosy-tinted 
Whispered  the  race  of  the  flowers,  and  merry 

on  balancing  branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a  jubilant 

hymn  to  the  Highest. 


i66 


Swept    and    clean    was    the  churchyard. 

Adorned  like  a  leaf-woven  arbor 
Stood  its   old-fashioned  gate ;  and  within 

upon  each  cross  of  iron 
Hung  was  a  sweet-scented    garland,  new 

twined  by  the  hands  of  affection. 
Even  the  dial,   that  stood  on  a  fountain 

among  the  departed 
(There  full  a  hundred  years  had  it  stood), 

was  embellished  with  blossoms. 
Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his 

kith  and  the  hamlet, 
Who  on  his  birthday  is  crowned  by  chil- 
dren and  children's  children, 
So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and  mute  with 

pencil  of  iron 
Marked  on  the  table  of  stone,  and  measured 

the  swift-changing  moment, 
While  all  around  at  his  feet,  an  eternity 

slumbered  in  quiet. 
Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  for  this 

was  the  season 
In  which  the  young,  their  parent's  hope, 

and  the  loved-ones  of  heaven, 
Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the 

vows  of  their  baptism. 


Therefore  each  nook  and  corner  was  swept 

and  cleaned,  and  the  dust  was 
Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from 

the  oil-painted  benches. 
There  stood  the  church  like  a  garden ;  the 

Feast  of  the  Leafy  Pavilions  * 
Saw  we  in  living  presentment.     From  noble 

arms  on  the  church  wall 
Grew  forth  a  cluster  of   leaves,  and  the 

preacher's  pulpit  of  oak-wood 
Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the 

rod  before  Aaron. 
Wreathed  thereon  was  the  Bible  with  leaves, 

and  the  dove,  washed  with  silver, 
Under  its  canopy  fastened,  a  necklace  had 

on  of  wind-flowers. 
But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar- 
piece  painted  by  Horberg,f 
Crept  a  garland  gigantic  ;  and  bright-curling 

tresses  of  angels 
Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a  cloud,  out  of  the 

shadowy  leaf-work. 

*The  Feast  of  the  Tabernacles;  in  Swedish  Loi 
hyddohogtiden,  the  Leaf-huts'-high-tide. 

f  The  peasant-painter  of  Sweden.  He  is  known 
chiefly  by  his  altar-pieces  in  the  village  churches. 


Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new-polished, 

blinked  from  the  ceiling, 
And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost 

set  in  the  sockets. 
Loud  rang  the  bells  already  ;  the  thronging 

crowd  was  assembled 
Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the  holy 

preaching. 

Hark  !  then  roll  forth  at  once  the  migh.y 
tones  from  the  organ, 

Hover  like  voices  from  God,  aloft  like  invis- 
ible spirits. 

Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  off 

from  him  his  mantle, 
Even  so  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of 

earth  ;  and  with  one  voice 
Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an 

anthem  immortal 
Of  the  sublime  Wallin,*  of  David's  harp  in 

the  North-land 
Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther  ;  the  song  on 

its  powerful  pinions 
Took  every  living  soul,  and  lifted  it  gently 

to  heaven, 

•  A  distinguished  pulpit-orator  and  poet.  He  is  par- 
ticularly remarkable  for  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  his 
psalm*  ~ 


Knd  every  face  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One's 

face  upon  Tabor. 
Lo  !  there  entered  then  into  the  church  the 

Reverend  Teacher. 
Fathei'  he  hight  and  he  was  in  the  parish ;  a 

christianly  plainness 
Clothed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man 

of  seventy  winters. 
Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the 

heralding  angel 
Walked  he  among  the  crowds,  but  still  a 

contemplative  grandeur 
Lay  on  his  forehead  as  clear,  as  on  a  moss- 
covered  grave-stone  a  sunbeam. 
As  in  his  inspiration  (an  evening  twilight 

that  faintly 
Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from 

the  day  of  creation) 
Th*  Artist,  the  friend  of  heaven,  imagines 

Saint  John  when  in  Patmos  ; — 
Gray,  with  his  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so 

seemed  then  the  old  man  ; 
Such  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such 

were  his  tresses  of  silver. 
All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that 

were  numbered. 
But  with  a  cordial  look,  to  the  right  and  the 

left  hand  the  old  man 


Nodding  all  hail  and  peace,  disappeared  in 
the  innermost  chancel. 

Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the 

Christian  service, 
Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last  an  ardent 

discourse  from  the  old  man. 
Many  a  moving  word  and  warning,  that  out 

of  the  heart  came 
Fell  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  like  manna 

on  those  in  the  desert. 
Afterwards,    when    all   was   finished,  the 

Teacher  reentered  the  chancel, 
Followed  therein  by  the  young.     On  the 

right  hand  the  boys  had  their  places 
Delicate  figures,  with  close-curling'  hair  and 

cheeks  rosy-blooming. 
But  on  the  left-hand  of  these,  there  stood  the 

tremulous  lilies, 
Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  oi  the  morn- 
ing, the  diffident  maidens,— 
Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes 

cast  down  on  the  pavement. 
Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the 

catechism.    In  the  beginning 
Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and 

faltering  voice,  but  the  old  man's 


171 


Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon, 

and  the  doctrines  eternal 
Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  fountains,  so  clear 

from  lips  unpolluted. 
Whene'er  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as  oft 

as  they  named  the  Redeemer, 
Lowly   louted   the  boys,   and   lowly  the 

maidens  all  courtesied. 
Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of 

light  there  among  them, 
And  to  the  children  explained  he  the  holy, 

the  highest,  in  few  words, 
Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear,  for  sub- 
limity always  is  simple, 
Both  in  sermon  and  song  a  child  can  seize 

on  its  meaning- 
Even  as  the  green-grow  u~g  bud  is  unfolded 

when  Spring-tide  approaches 
Leaf  by  leaf  is  developed,  andk  warmed  by 

the  radiant  sunshine, 
Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the 

perfected  blossom 
Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with 

its  crown  in  the  breezes, 
So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  sal- 
vation, 

Line  by  line  from  the  soul  of  childhood 
The  fathers  and  mothers. 


*72  'j&tttt$ttlUvo9&  gtttmt* 


Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad 
at  each  well-worded  answer. 

Now  went  the  old  man  up  to  the  altar 
and  straightway  transfigured 

(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affec- 
tionate Teacher. 

Like  the  Lord's  Prophet  sublime,  and  awful 
as  Death  and  as  Judgment 

S.ood  he,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul- 
searcher,  earthward  descending, 

Glances,  sharp  as  a  sword,  into  hearts,  that 
to  him  were  transparent 

Shot  he ;  his  voice  was  deep,  was  low  like 
the  thunder  afar  off. 

So  on  a  sudden  transfigured  he  stood  there 
he  spake  and  he  questioned. 

This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the  faith 
the  Apostles  delivered, 

This  is  moreover  the  faith  whereunto  I  bap- 
tized you,  while  still  ye 

Lay  on  your  mothers'  breasts,  and  nearer 
the  portals  of  heaven. 

Slumbering  received  you  then  the  Holy 
Church  in  its  bosom  ; 


ICflttgfeUfltt^  f  om^  173 


Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the 
light  in  its  radiant  splendor 

Rains  from  the  heaven  downward  ; — to-day 
on  the  threshold  of  childhood 

Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and 
make  your  election, 

For  she  knows  nought  cf  compulsion,  only 
conviction  desireth. 

This  is  the  hour  cf  your  trial,  the  turning- 
point  of  existence, 

Seed  for  the  coming  days ;  without  revocation 
departeth 

Now  from  }rour  lips  the  confession  ;  Bethink 

ye,  before  ye  make  answer  ! 
Think  not,  O  think  not  with  guile  to  deceive 

the  questioning  Teacher. 
Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a  curse  ever 

rests  upon  falsehood. 
Enter  not  with  a  lie  on  Life's  journey  ;  the 

multitude  hears  you, 
Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear 

upon  earth  is  and  holy 
Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a  witness  ;  the 

Judge  everlasting 
Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  you,  and 

angels  in  waiting  beside  him 
Grave  your  confession  in  letters  of  fire,  upoa 

tablets  eterna1 


*74 


Thus  then, — believe  ye  in  God,  in  theFathef 

who  this  world  created  ? 
Him  who  redeemed  it,   the  Son,  and  the 

Spirit  where  both  are  united? 
Will  ye  promise  me  here  (a  holy  promise  !), 

to  cherish 

God  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every 

man  as  a  brother? 
Will  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your 

faith  by  your  living, 
Th'  heavenly  faith  of  affection  !  to  hope,  to 

forgive,  and  to  suffer, 
Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk 

before  God  in  uprightness  ? 
Will  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and 

man  ? ' — With  a  clear  voice 
Answered  the  young  men  Yes  !  and  Yes  I 

with  lips  softly-breathing 
Answered  the  maidens  eke.     Then  dissolved 

from  the  brow  of  the  Teacher 
Clouds  with  the  thunders  therein,  and  he 

spake  on  in  accents  more  gentle, 
Soft  as  the  evening's  breath,  as  harps  by 

Babylon's  rivers. 

•'Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all!     To  the 
heirdom  of  heaven  be  ye  welcome  I 


%m$tt\Uwf#  $0M0*  175 


Children  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by  cove- 
nant brothers  and  sisters  ! 

Yet, — for  what  reason  not  children?  Of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage  of  children, 
in  heaven  one  father, 

Ruling  them  as  his  own  household, — forgiv- 
ing in  turn  and  chastising,  "mm*+m«* 

That  is  of  human  life  a  picture,  as  Scripture 
has  taught  us. 

Blessed  are  the  pure  before  God !  Upon 
purity  and  upon  virtue 

Resteth  the  Christian  Faith  ;  she  herself  from 
on  high  is  descended. 

Strong  as  a  man  and  pure  as  a  child,  is  the 
sum  of  the  doctrine, 

Which  the  Godlike  delivered,  and  on  the 
cross  suffered  and  died  for. 

O  !  as  ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood's 
sacred  asylum 

Downward  and  ever  downward,  and  deeper 
in  Age's  chill  valley, 

O  !  how  soon  will  ye  come, — too  soon  ! — - 
and  long  to  turn  backward 

Up  to  its   hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illu- 
mined, where  Judgment 

Stood  like  a  father  before  you,  and  Pardon^ 
clad  like  a  mother, 


176  fjfottgtdlow'* 


Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving 

heart  was  forgiven, 
Life  was  a  play  and  your  hands  grasped 

after  the  roses  of  heaven  ! 
Seventy  years  have  I    lived  already ;  the 

Father  eternal 
Gave  to  me  gladness  and  care  ;  but  the  love- 

liest  hours  of  existence, 
When  I  have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their  eyes, 

I  have  instantly  known  them, 
Known  them  all,  all  again  ; — they  were  my 

childhoods  acquaintance. 
Therefore  take  from  henceforth,  as  guides 

in  the  paths  of  existence, 
Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and 

Innocence,  bride  of  man's  childhood. 
Innocence,  child  beloved,  is  a  guest  from 

the  world  of  the  blessed, 
Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a  lily  ;  on  life's 

roaring  billows 
Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heeded  them  not, 

in  the  ship  she  was  sleeping. 
Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of 

men  ;  in  the  desert 
Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her;  she 

herself  knoweth 
Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance  ;  but  fot> 

lows  faithful  and  humble, 


177 


Follows  so  long  as  she  may  her  friend ;  O 
do  not  reject  her, 

For  she  cometh  from  God  and  she  holdeth 
the  keys  of  the  heavens. — 

Prayer  is  Innocence'  friend ;  and  willingly 
flieth  incessant 

*Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier- 
pigeon  of  heaven. 

Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an 
exile,  the  Spirit 

Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  struggles 
like  flames  ever  upward. 

Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  father's  mani- 
fold mansion3; 

Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blos- 
somed more  freshly  the  flowers, 

Shone  a  more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played 
with  the  winged  angels. 

Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow,  too  close  ; 
and  homesick  f^r  heaven 

Longs  the  wander jr  again  ;  and  the  Spirits 
longings  are  worship ; 

Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour, 
and  its  tongue  is  entreaty 

Ah  !  when  the  infinite  burden  of  life  de- 
scendeth  upon  us, 

Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the 
earth,  in  the  grave-yard, — 


1 78  tgm$ttlW$  Wotmg. 


Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God  ;  for  his 

sorrowing  children 
Turns  he  ne'er  from  his  door,  but  he  heals 

and  helps  and  consoles  them. 
Yet  it  is  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are 

prosperous  with  us, 
Pray  in  fortunate  days,  for  life's  most  beauti- 
ful Fortune 
Kneels  down  before  the  Eternal's  throne ; 

and,  with  hands  interfolded, 
Praises  thankful  and  moved  the  only  Giver 

of  blessings. 
Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing 

that  comes  not  from  Heaven  ? 
What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor  !  that 

it  has  not  received  ? 
Therefore,  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray  !  The 

seraphs  adoring 
Cover  with  pinions  six  their  face  in  the  glory 

of  him  who 
Hung  his  :  .asonry  pendant  on  naught,  when 

the  world  he  created. 
Earth  declare th  his  might,  and  the  firmament 

uttereth  his  glory. 
Races  blossom  and  die,  and  stars  fall  down- 
ward from  heaven, 
Downward  like  withered  leaves  ;  at  the  lasi 

stroke  of  midnight,  millenniums 


Lay  themselves  down  at  his  feet,  and  he  sees 

them,  but  counts  them  as  nothing. 
Who  shall  stand  in  his  presence  ?  The  wrath 

of  the  Judge  is  terrific, 
Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a  glance.  When 

he  speaks  in  his  anger 
Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  the  mountains 

leap  like  the  roe-buck. 
Yet, — why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children  ?  This 

awful  avenger, 
Ah  !   is  a  merciful  God  !    God's  voice  was 

not  in  the  earthquake, 
Not  in  the  £ye,  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was  in 

the  whispering  breezes. 
Love  is  the  root  of  creation  ;  God's  essence  ; 

worlds  without  number 
Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children  ;  he  made 

them  for  this  purpose  only. 
Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  he 

breathed  forth  his  spirit 
Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  stand* 

ing,  it  laid  its 

on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with 

a  flame  out  of  heaven. 
Quench,  O  quench  not  that  flame  I    It  is  the 

breath  of  your  being. 
Love  is  life,  but  hatred'is  death.    Not  father, 

nor  mother 


180  |E0tt0t*U0w'0 


Loved  you,  as  God  has  loved  you  ;  for  it 

was  that  you  may  be  happy 
Gave  he  his  only  son.    When  he  bowed 

down  his  head  in  the  death-hour 
Solemnized  Love  its  triumph ;  the  sacrifice 

then  was  completed. 
Lo  !  then  was  rent  on  a  sudden  the  vail  of 

the  temple,  dividing 
Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from 

their  sepulchers  rising 
Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the 

ears  of  each  other 
Th'  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  crea- 
tion's enigma,— Atonement  ! 
Depths  of  Love  are  Atonement's  depths,  for 

Love  is  Atonement. 
Therefore,  child  of  mortality,  love  thou  the 

merciful  Father  • 
Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not 

from  fear,  but  affection  ; 
Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves ;  but  the  heart 

that  loveth  is  willing; 
Perfect  was  before  God,  and  perfect  is  Love, 

and  Love  only. 
Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then 

lovest  thou  likewise  thy  brethren  ^ 


One  is  the  sun  in  Heaven,  and  one,  only  one 

is  Love  also. 
Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike 

stamp  on  his  forehead  ? 
Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin  ? 

Is  he  not  sailing 
Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and 

is  he  not  guided 
By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  ?  Why 

shouldst  thou  hate  then  thy  brother  ? 
Hateth  he  thee,  forgive  !    For 't  is  sweet  to 

stammer  one  letter 
Of  the  Eternal's  language  ; — on  earth  it  is 

called  Forgiveness  ! 
Knowest  thou  Him,  who  forgave,  with  the 

crown  of  thorns  round  his  temples  ? 
rnestly  prayed  for  his  foes,  for  his  mur- 
derers ?    Sa} ,  dost  thou  know  him  ? 
Ah !  thou  confessest  his  name,  so  follow 

likewise  his  example, 
Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a  vail 

over  his  failings, 
Guide  the  erring  aright ;  for  the  good,  the 

heavenly  shepherd 
Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it 

back  to  its  mother. 


l82 


This  is  the  fruit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits 

that  we  know  it. 
Love  is  the  creature's  welfare,  with  God; 

but  Love  among-  mortals 
Is  but  an  endless  sigh  !    He  longs,  and  en~ 

dures,  and  stands  waiting, 
Suffers  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with 

tears  on  his  eyelids. 
Hope, — so  is  called  upon  earth,  his  recom* 

pense. — Hope,  the  befriending, 
Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore 

up  to  heavon,  and  faithful 
Plunges  her  anchor's  peak  in  the  depths  of 

the  grave,  and  beneath  it 
Paints  a  more  beautiful  world,  a  dim,  but  a 

sweet  play  of  shadows  I 
Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her 

wavering  promise, 
Having  naught  else  beside  Hope.  Then 

praise  we  our  Father  in  Heaven, 
Him,  who  has  given  us  more  ;  for  to  us  has 

Hope  been  illumined, 
Groping  no  longer  in  night ;  she  is  Faith, 

she  is  living  assurance. 
Faith  is  enlightened  Hope  ;  she  is  light,  is 

the  eye  of  affection, 


I)reams  of  the  longing-  interprets,  and  carves 

their  visions  in  marble. 
Faith  is  the  sun  of  life  ;  and  her  countenance 

shines  like  the  Prophets, 
For  she  has  looked  upon  God  ;  the  heaven 

on  its  stable  foundation 
Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and 

the  New  Jerusalem  sinketh 
Splendid   with   portals    twelve   in  golden 

vapors  descending. 
There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks  at 

the  figures  majestic, 
Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst  of 

them  all  is  her  homestead. 
Therefore  love  and  believe  ;  for  works  will 

follow  spontaneous 
Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ;  the  Right  from 

the  Good  is  an  offspring, 
Love  in  a  bodily  shape  ;  and  Christian  works 

are  no  more  than 
Animate  Love  and  faith,  as  flowers  are  the 

animate  spring-tide. 
Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God ;  there 

stand  and  bear  witness 
Not  what  they  seemed, — but  what  they  were 

only.    Blessed  is  he  who 


184  gtottjfa^W'tf  ^omy 


Hears  their   confession  secure ;    they  are 

mute  upon  earth  until  death's  hand 
Opens  the  mouth  of  the  silent.    Ye  children, 

does  Death  e'er  alarm  you  ? 
Death  is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother 

is  he,  and  is  only 
More  austere  to  behold.    With  a  kiss  upon 

lips  that  are  fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and  rocked 

in  the  arms  of  affection, 
Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  'fore 

the  face  of  its  father. 
Sounds  of  his  coming  already  I  hear, — see 

dimly  his  pinions, 
Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn 

upon  them  !    I  fear  not  before  him. 
Death  is  only  release,  and  in  mercy  is  mute. 

On  his  bosom 
Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast ; 

and  face  to  face  standing 
Look  I  on  God  as  he  is,  a  sun  unpolluted  by 

vapors  ; 

Look  on  the  light  of  the  ages  I  loved,  the 

spirits  majestic, 
Hobler,  better  than  I ;  they  stand  by  the 

throne  all  transfigured. 


Vested  in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold,  and 

are  singing  an  anthem, 
Writ  in  the  climate  of  heaven,  in  the  lan- 
guage spoken  by  angels. 
You,  in  like  manner,  ye  children  beloved, 

he  one  day  shall  gather, 
Never  forgets  he  the  weary  ; — then  welcome, 

ye  loved  ones,  hereafter  ! 
Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows, 

forget  not  the  promise, 
Wander  from  holiness  onward  to  holiness ; 

earth  shall  ye  heed  not  ; 
Earth  is  but  dust  and  heaven  is  light ;  I 

have  pledged  you  to  heaven. 
God  of  the  Universe,  hear  me  !  thou  fountain 

of  Love  everlasting, 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant  !    I  send 

up  my  prayer  to  thy  heaven  ! 
Let  me  hereafter  not  miss  at  thy  throne  one 

spirit  of  all  these, 
Whom  thou  hast  given  me  here  !  I  have 

loved  them  all  like  a  father. 
May  they  bear  witness  for  me,  that  I  taught 

them  the  way  of  salvation, 
Faithful,  so  far  as  I  knew  of  thy  word ;  again 

may  they  know  me, 


186  gCattgftttow^  gum^ 


Fallon  their  Teacher  s  breast,  and  before  thy 

face  may  I  place  them, 
Pure  as  they  now  are,  but  only  more  tr.'ed, 

and  exclaiming  with  gladness, 
Father,  lo  !  I  am  here,  and  the  children, 

whom  thou  hast  given  me  !  " 

Weeping  he  spake  in  these  words;  and  now 
at  the  beck  of  the  old  man 

Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a  wreath 
round  the  altar's  enclosure. 

Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the  con- 
secration, and  softly 

With  him  the  children  read  ;  at  the  close, 
with  tremulous  accents, 

Asked  he  the  peace  of  heaven,  a  benediction 
upon  them. 

Now  should  have  ended  his  task  for  the  dny; 
the  following  Sunday 

Was  for  the  young  appointed  to  eat  of  the 
Lord's  holy  Supper. 

Sudden,  as  struck  from  the  clouds,  stood  the 
Teacher  silent  and  laid  his 

Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks  up- 
ward; while  thoughts  high  and  holy 

Flew  through  the  midst  of  his  soul,  and  his 
eyes  glanced  with  wonderful  bright- 
ness. 


g^ngfettaw's  §>0*w&  187 


"  On  the  next  Sunday,  who  knows  !  perhaps 

I  shall  rest  in  the  grave-yard  I 
Some   one   perhaps  of  yourselves,   a  lily 

broken  untimely, 
Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth  ;  why  delay 

I  ?  the  hour  is  accomplished. 
Warm  is  the  heart  ; — I  will  so  !  for  to-day 

prows  the  harvest  of  heaven. 

o 

What  I  began  accomplish  I  now  ;  for  what 
failing  therein  is 

I,  Lhe  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the 
reverend  father. 

Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens 
new-come  in  heaven, 

Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  bread  of 
Atonement  ? 

What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well,  I 
have  told  it  you  often. 

Of  the  new  covenant  a  symbol  it  is,  cf  Atone- 
ment a  token, 

'Stablished  between  earth  and  heaven.  Man 
by  his  sins  and  transgressions 

Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  es- 
sence.   'Twas  in  the  beginning 

Fast  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and 
it  hangs  its  crown  o'er  lhe 


*88  gtonQftlWfi  f  o*m& 


Fall  to  this  day  ;  in  the  Thought  is  the  Fall ; 

in  the  Heart  the  Atonement. 
Infinite  is  the  Fall,  the  Atonement  infinite 

likewise. 

See  !  behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  r@^ 

members,  and  forward, 
Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her 

wearied  pinions, 
Sin  and  Atonement  incessant  go  through  the 

lifetime  of  mortals. 
Brought  forth  is  sin  full-grown  ;  but  Atone' 

ment  sleeps  in  our  bosoms 
Still  as  the  cradled  babe ;  and  dreams  of 

heaven  and  of  angels 
Cannot  wake  to  sensation  ;  is  like  the  tones 

in  the  harp's  strings, 
Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the 

deliverer's  finger. 
Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended 

the  Prince  of  Atonement, 
Woke  the  slumberer  from  sleep,    and  he 

stands  now  with  eyes  all  resplendent, 
Bright  as  the  vault  of  the  sky,  and  battles 

with  Sin  and  o'ercomes  her. 
Downward  to  earth  he  came  and  transfigured 

thence  reascended, 


Not  from  the  heart  in  likewise,  for  there  he 

still  lives  in  the  Spirit, 
Loves  and  atones  evermore.    So  long  as 

Time  is,  is  Atonement. 
Therefore  with  reverence  receive  this  day 

her  visible  token. 
Tokens  are  dead  if  the  things  do  not  live. 

The  light  everlasting 
Unto  the  blind  man  is  not,  but  is  born  of  the 

eye  that  has  vision. 
Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the 

heart  that  is  hallowed 
Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined  ;  the  intention 

alone  of  amendment. 
Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly 

things,  and  removes  all 
Sin  and  the  guerdon  of  sin.    Only  Love  with 

his  arms  wide  extended, 
Penitence  weeping  and  praying ;  the  Will. 

that  is  tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 
Purified  forth  from  the  flames  ;  in  a  word, 

mankind  by  Atonement 
Breaketh  Atonement's  bread,  and  drinketh 

Atonement's  wine  cup. 
i3ut  he  who  cometh  up  hither,  unworthyi 

with  hate  in  his  bosom, 


190  Ipwgftttott^  §?0*ttt& 


Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guilty  of 

Christ's  blessed  body, 
And  the  Redeemer's  blood  !    To  himself  he 

eateth  and  drinketh 
Death  and  doom  !    And  from  this,  preserve 

us,  thou  heavenly  Father  ! 
Are  ye  ready,  ye  children,  to  eat  of  the  bread 

of  Atonement  ?  " 
Thus  with  emotion  he  asked,  and  together 

answered  the  children 
Yes  !    with  deep  sobs  interrupted.  Then 

read  he  the  due  supplications, 
Read   the  Form    of  Communion,  and  in 

chimed  the  organ  and  anthem  ; 
O  !  Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away 

our  transgressions, 
Hear  us  !  give  us  thy  peace  !  have  mercy, 

have  mercy  upon  us  ! 
Th'  old  man,   with  trembling  hand,  and 

heavenly  pearls  on  his  eyelids, 
Filled  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt 

round  the  mystical  symbols. 
O  !  then  seemed  it  to  me,  as  if  God,  with  the 

broad  eye  of  mid-day, 
Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  all 

the  trees  in  the  churchyard 


Bowed  down  their  summits  of  green,  and  the 
grass  on  the  grates  'gan  to  shiver. 

But  in  the  children  (I  noted  it  well  ;  I  knew 
it)  there  ran  a 

Tremor  of  holy  rapture  along  through  their 
icy-cold  members. 

Decked  like  an  altar  before  them,  there  stood 
the  green  earth,  and  above  it 

Heaven  opened  itself,  as  of  old  before 
Stephen  ;  there  saw  they 

Radiant  in  glory  the  Father,  and  on  his  right 
hand  the  Redeemer. 

Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harp- 
strings,  and  angels  from  gold  clouds 

Beckon  to  them  like  brothers,  and  fan  with 
their  pinions  of  purple. 

Closed  was  the  Teacher's  task,  and  with 

heaven  in  their  hearts  and  their  faces, 
Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed 

him,  weeping  full  sorely, 
Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand,  but 

all  of  them  pressed  he 
Moved  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a  prayer, 

his  hands  full  of  blessings, 
Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the 

innocent  tresses. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 


Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whatever  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night. 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

m 


196  ^flngfeUow^  |*0jetn& 


And  children  coming-  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter  s  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice^ 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begun, 
Each  evening  sees  i*  close ; 

Something  attempted,  something  don^ 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 


]&m$tlUwf#  ^am#.  197 


Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught  I 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought] 


ENDYMION. 


The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars  J 
Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between* 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 

As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 
Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 
Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss  ;  unasked,  unsougl 
Love  gives  itself,  bet  is  not  bought; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

C98 


It  comes, — the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity, — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep^ 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 

O,  weary  hearts  !    O,  slumbering  eyes  I 
O,  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds, — as  if  with  unseen  wings,  . 

A  breath  from  heaven  had  touched  its  strings; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
*' Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long?" 


THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PFIZER. 

A  youth,  light-hearted  and  content, 
I  wander  through  the  world  ; 

ilere,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  r.  y  tent 
And  straight  ap-am  is  furle.L 

Yet  oft  I  dream,  that  once  a  wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A  blessed  child  I  rocked. 

I  wake  !    Away  that  dream, — away ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 
So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 

It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought ; 

To  a  grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought ; 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 
200 


<§<m$ft\W#  Itow*  201 


But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eyes  and  see  ; 
And  wander  through  the  world  once  mOffe, 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks, — and  they  are  wondrous  fair,«-« 

Left  me  that  vision  mild  ; 
The  brown  is  from  the  mother's  hair, 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold, 

Pale  grows  the  evening-red  ; 
And  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 

I  wish  that  i  were  dead. 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWKYS  MAY. 


No  hay  pajaros  en  los  nidos  de  antano. 

Spanish  PrcwerL 

The  sun  is  bright, — the  air  is  clear  , 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  blue-bird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 

Where  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new  ; — the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves  ; — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fullness  of  thVir  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night 
202 


Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme> 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay  ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For  O  !  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth, 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nestl 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 


The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart  !  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


GOD'S-ACRE. 


I  like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls  * 
The  burial-ground  God's-Acre  !    It  is  just  ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 
And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping 
dust. 

God's-Acre  !    Yes,  that  blessed  name  3m* 
parts 

Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have 
sown 

The  seed,  that  they  had  garnered  in  their 
hearts, 

Their  bread  of  life,  alas  !  no  more  their 
own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 
At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's 
blast 

Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and 
grain. 
205 


io6  jZnutftXltiw'fi  g0mA 


Then  shall  the  good   stand  in  immortal 
bloom, 

In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 
And  each  bright  blossom,  mingle  its  per- 
fume 

•  With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed 
on  earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up 

the  sod, 

And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow; 
This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God. 
This  is  the  place,  where  human  harvest 
grow' 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 


River  !  that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  freefc 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  rindest 

In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 
•Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver  ; 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  Stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 

And  in  better  hours  :«^cf  brighter, 
When  I  saw  thy  witers  gleam, 

207 


208 


I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 
Nor  because,  thy  waves  of  blue 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  ihe% 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee. 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ; — thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

'Tis  for  this,  thou  Silent  River  1 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver; 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


BLIND  BARTIMEUS. 


Blind  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 

Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd  ; — he  hears  a  breath 

Say,  "  It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  J  " 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 

IrjaoQ,  k\6r}cr6v  jue  / 


The  thronging  multitudes  increase; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  i 
But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 
The  beggar's  cry  is  shrill  and  loud ; 
Until  they  say,  "He  calleth  thee  !  " 

Qdpaei,  fryeipai,  (pwvel  ere  / 


Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  "What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands  ?m 
And  he  replies,  "O  give  me  light  ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight" 
And  Jesus  answers,  "T  vayc 

*H.  tt'kttls  gov  ct£<j<jjk4  ae  I 

14  2og 


210 


Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see^ 
In  darkness  and  in  misery, 
Recall  those  mighty  Voices  Threes 

*It}<tov,  £k4t)<t6¥  fie  ! 
6dp<7et,  eyeipcu,  inrayc  f 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 


Filled  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim  ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
And  chant  a  melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers, — no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene^ 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art 
Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart. 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 
Are  running  all  to  waste. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 

With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned^ 

2X1 


si2  ]&m$tVLmf#  ^mtrnf. 

Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 

&bove  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food  ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press, 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give ! 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  showf 
How  bittei  are  the  drops  of  woe, 
With  which  its*  brim  may  overflow, 
He  has  not  learned  to  live. 


|CcmgftUaa*'£  gams. 


The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 
Te  see  his  foeman's  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light, — for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

O  suffering,  sad  humanity  ! 

0  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried  I 

1  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Where  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 

The  alarm, — the  struggle, — the  relief,— 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


MAIDENHOOD. 


Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyet, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  i 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet  1 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river  s  broad  expanse  I 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 
ai4 


Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Seest  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

earest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataracts  roar? 

O,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  — Life  hath  snares  • 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossom  many-numbered; — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered*  * 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 

When  the  young  heart  overflows, 

To  embalm  that  tent  of  snow,  * 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand 


n6  (g,m$t\W#  f  0*m& 


Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


EXCELSIOR. 


The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fasti 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device 
Excelsior  ! 

jfiis  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath, 
flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior  ! 

tn  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright  ] 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 


•*  Try  not  the  Pass  !  "  the  old  man  said  ; 
"Dark lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 

217 


218       Jfongf^fbufs  JP^m** 


The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide!" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied 
Excelsior ! 

"  O  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  4 4  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast!' 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

tk  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch; 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche!" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night. 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveler,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half -buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device* 
Excelsior ! 


There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior  1 


/ 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


[The  following  poems,  with  one  exception,  were 
written  at  sea,  in  the  latter  part  of  October. 
I  had  not  then  heard  of  Dr.  Channing's 
death.  Since  that  event,  the  poem  address- 
ed to  him  is  no  longer  appropriate.  I  have 
decided,  however,  to  let  it  remain  as  it  was 
written,  a  feeble  testimony  of  my  admiratiop 
for  a  great  and  good  man.] 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


The  noble  horse, 
That,  in  his  fiery  youth,  from  his  wide  nostrils 
Neighed  courage  to  his  rider,  and  brake  through 
Groves  of  opposed  pikes,  bearing  his  lord 
Safe  to  triumphant  victory,  old  or  wounded, 
Was  set  at  liberty  and  freed  from  service. 
The  Athenian  mules,  that  from  the  quarry  drew 
Marble,  hewed  for  the  Temple  of  the  Gods, 
The  great  work  ended,  were  dismissed  and  fed 
At  the  public  cost ;  nay,  faithful  dogs  have  found 
Their  sepulchres  ;  but  man,  to  man  more  cruel, 
t  Appoints  no  end  to  the  sufferings  of  his  slave. 

Massinger. 

TO  WILLIAM  E.  CHANNINGv 

""he  pages  of  thy  book  I  read, 

And  as  I  closed  each  one, 
My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 
"Servant  of  God  !  well  done !  " 

Well  done  !  Thy  words  are  great  and  bold; 
At  times  they  seem  to  me, 


224  <§m$tUwf$  l$,Mm$. 


Like  Luther's,  in  the  days  of  old, 
Half-battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 

The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 
The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 

Insult  humanity. 

A  voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 

Speaking  in  tones  of  might, 
Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 

To  John  in  Patmos,  "  Write  !  " 

Write  !  and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale  ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse, 
^his  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 

This  dread  Apocalypse  1 


THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM. N 


Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand  ; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand. 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 

He  saw  his  Native  Land. 


Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreama 

The  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode  ; 
And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain-road. 


He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand  ; 
They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks* 

They  held  him  by  the  hand ! — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 

I5  325 


226  l&m%it\\mJ»  §vtw&. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 
His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  ot 
steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 
From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyaena  scream, 
And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dreams. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty  ; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free, 
That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  tneir  tempestuous  glee. 


He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day ; 
For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of  Sleep, 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away! 


v. 


THE  GOOD  PART, 


THAT   SHALL  NOT   BE  TAKEN  AWAY. 

She  dwells  by  great  Kennawa's  side 
In  valleys  green  and  cool ; 

And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 
Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 
That  robes  the  hills  above, 

Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 
All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes ! 

Subduing  e'en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 
Of  One  who  came  to  save; 

To  cast  the  captive's  chains  aside, 
And  liberate  the  slave. 
228 


And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 
When  all  men  shall  be  free ; 

And  musical,  as  silver  bells, 
Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty, 
She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 

And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 

To  break  the  iron  bands 
Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 

Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 

While  she,  in  meek  humility, 
Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 


In  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 
He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a  horse's  tramp 

And  a  bloodhound's  distant  bay. 

Where  will-o'-the  wisps   and  glowworms 

shine, 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake  ; 
Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vi»S 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake  ; 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  heart  would  dare, 
On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass 

Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame ; 
Great  scars  deformed  his  face  , 
230 


On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 
And  the  rags  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 
Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 

All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair, 

All  things  were  glad  and  free; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 
With  songs  of  Liberty ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

From  the  morning  of  his  birth ; 
On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a  flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth ! 


THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGffE 


Loud  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David  t 
He,  a  Negro  and  enslaved, 
Sang  of  Israel's  victory, 
Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 
In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  hear. 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion  { 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad. 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 
Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen, 
232 


]isng%!bttr$  Jfitm**        2  33 


And  an  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But  alas !  what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel? 
And  what  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night? 


THE  WITNESSES. 

In  Ocean's  wide  domains 
Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 
Deeper  than  plummet  lies, 

Float  ships,  with  all  their  crews, 
No  more  to  sink  or  rise. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

Whose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs, 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 

These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss; 
They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

44  We  are  the  Witnesses!" 

Within  Earth's  wide  domains 

Are  markets  fur  men's  lives; 
2  34 


235 


Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains, 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 

In  deserts  makes  its  prey, 
Murders,  that  with  affright " 

Scare  schoolboys  from  their  play. 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride; 
The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide! 

These  are  the  woes  of  slaves; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 

"We  are  the  Witnesses!" 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL 


The  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 
Lay  moored  with  idle  sail  ; 

He  waited  for  the  rising  moon, 
And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 

And  all  her  listless  crew 
Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 

Into  the  still  bayou. 

Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice^ 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time, 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a  world  of  crime. 

The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch, 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow  ; 

The  Slaver's  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 
He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  "My  ship  at  anchor  rides 
in  yonder  broad  lagoon ; 
236 


I  only  wait  the  evening  tides, 
And  the  rising  of  the  moon." 

Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude, 
Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A  Quadroon  maiden  stood. 

Her  eyes  were,  like  a  falcon's,  gray, 
Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare  ; 

No  garment  she  wore  save  a  kirtle  gay* 
And  her  own  long,  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a  smile 

As  holy,  meek,  and  faint, 
As  light  in  some  cathedral  aisle 

The  features  of  a  saint. 

"The  soil  is  barren, — the  farm  is  old; 

The  thoughtful  Planter  said ; 
Then  looked  upon  the  Slavers  gold, 

And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 

With  such  accursed  gains  ; 
For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 

Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 


But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak  . 

He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 
Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden's 

cheek, 
Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 
To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 

la  a  strange  and  distant  land  I 


THE  WARNING. 


Beware  !    The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 
The  lion  in  his  path, — when  poor,  and 
blind, 

He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no  morev 
Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced 
to  grind 

In  prison  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 

A  pander  to  Philistine  revelry, —  | 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 

His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  overthrow 
Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those 
who  made 
A  cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe ; 
The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest 
of  all, 

Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall ! 

There  is  a  poor,  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 
Shorn  of  his  strength,  and  bound  in 
bonds  of  steel 

239 


240  (§<tn%ft\Uxcf&  gj0*ms. 


Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  hia 
hand, 

And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Common- 
weal, 

Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liberties 

A-  shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies* 


* 


I 


/ 


